Most people receive with incredulity a statement of the number of birds that annually¹ visit our climate. Very few even are aware of half the number that spend the summer in their own immediate² vicinity. We little suspect, when we walk in the woods, whose privacy we are intruding³ upon,—what rare and elegant visitants from Mexico, from central and South America, and from the islands of the sea, are holding their reunions in the branches over our heads, or pursuing their pleasure on the ground before us.  
I recall the altogether admirable and shining family which Thoreau dreamed he saw in the upper chambers⁴ of Spaulding's woods, which Spaulding did not know lived there, and which were not put out when Spaulding, whistling, drove his team through their lower halls. They did not go into society in the village; they were quite well; they had sons and daughters; they neither wove nor spun⁵; there was a sound as of suppressed hilarity⁶.
 
I take it for granted that the forester was only saying a pretty thing of the birds, though I have observed that it does sometimes annoy them when Spaulding's cart rumbles⁷ through their house. Generally, however, they are as unconscious of Spaulding as Spaulding is of them.
 
Walking the other day in an old hemlock⁸ wood, I counted over forty varieties of these summer visitants, many of the common to other woods in the vicinity, but quite a number peculiar⁹ to these ancient solitudes¹⁰, and not a few that are rare in any locality. It is quite unusual to find so large a number abiding¹² in one forest,—and that not a large one,—most of them nesting and spending the summer there. Many of those I observed commonly pass this season much farther north. But the geographical¹³ distribution of birds is rather a climatical one. The same temperature, though under different parallels, usually attracts the same birds; difference in altitude being equivalent to the difference in latitude¹⁴. A given height above sea-level under the parallel of thirty degrees may have the same climate as places under that of thirty-five degrees, and similar flora¹⁵ and fauna¹⁶. At the head-waters of the Delaware, where I write, the latitude is that of Boston, but the region has a much greater elevation¹⁷, and hence a climate that compares better with the northern part of the State and of New England. Half a day's drive to the southeast brings me down into quite a different temperature, with an older geological formation, different forest timber, and different birds,—even with different mammals. Neither the little gray rabbit nor the little gray fox is found in my locality, but the great northern hare and the red fox are. In the last century, a colony of beavers¹⁸ dwelt here, though the oldest inhabitant cannot now point to even the traditional site of their dams. The ancient hemlocks¹⁹, whither I propose to take the reader, are rich in many things besides birds. Indeed, their wealth in this respect is owing mainly, no doubt, to their rank vegetable growth, their fruitful swamps, and their dark, sheltered retreats.
 
Their history is of an heroic cast. Ravished and torn by the tanner in his thirst for bark, preyed²¹ upon by the lumberman, assaulted and beaten back by the settler, still their spirit has never been broken, their energies never paralyzed. Not many years ago a public highway passed through them, but it was at no time a tolerable road; trees fell across it, mud and limbs choked it up, till finally travelers took the hint and went around; and now, walking along its deserted²² course, I see only the footprints of coons, foxes, and squirrels.
 
Nature loves such woods, and places her own seal upon them. Here she show me what can be done with ferns and mosses²³ and lichens²⁵. The soil is marrowy²⁶ and full of innumerable forests. Standing²⁷ in these fragrant²⁸ aisles²⁹, I feel the strength of the vegetable kingdom, and am awed³⁰ by the deep and inscrutable processes of life going on so silently about me.
 
No hostile forms with axe³¹ or spud now visit these solitudes. The cows have half-hidden ways through them, and know where the best browsing³² is to be had. In spring, the farmer repairs to their bordering of maples³⁴ to make sugar; in July and August women and boys from all the country about penetrate³⁵ the old Barkpeelings for raspberries and blackberries; and I know a youth who wonderingly follows their languid stream casting for trout³⁶.
 
In like spirit, alert and buoyant, on this bright June morning go I also to reap my harvest,—pursuing a sweet more delectable³⁷ than sugar, fruit more savory³⁸ than berries, and game for another palate than that tickled³⁹ by trout.
 
June, of all the months, the student of ornithology⁴⁰ can least afford to lose. Most birds are nesting then, and in full song and plumage. And what is a bird without its song? Do we not wait for the stranger to speak? It seems to me that I do not know a bird till I have heard its voice; then I come nearer it at once, and it possesses a human interest to me. I have met the gray-cheeked thrush in the woods, and held him in my hand; still I do not know him. The silence of the cedar-bird throws a mystery about him which neither his good looks nor his petty larcenies⁴¹ in cheery time can dispel⁴². A bird's song contains a clew to its life, and establishes a sympathy, an understanding, between itself and the listener.
 
I descend⁴³ a steep hill, and approach the hemlocks through a large sugar-bush. When twenty rods distant, I hear all along the line of the forest the incessant⁴⁴ warble of the red-eyed vireo, cheerful and happy as the merry whistle of a schoolboy. He is one of our most common and widely distributed birds. Approach any forest at any hour of the day, in any kind of weather, from May to August, in any of the Middle or Eastern districts, and the chances are that the first note you hear will be his. Rain or shine, before noon or after, in the deep forest or in the village grove,—when it is too hot for the thrushes or too cold and windy for the warblers,—it is never out of time or place for this little minstrel to indulge his cheerful strain. In the deep wilds of the Adirondacks, where few birds are seen and fewer heard, his note was almost constantly in my ear. Always busy, making it a point never to suspend for one moment his occupation to indulge his musical taste, his lay is that of industry and contentment. There is nothing plaintive⁴⁵ or especially musical in his performance, but the sentiment expressed is eminently⁴⁶ that of cheerfulness. Indeed, the songs of most birds have some human significance, which, I think, is the source of the delight we take in them. The song of the bobolink to me expresses hilarity; the song sparrow's, faith; the bluebird's, love; the catbird's, pride; the white-eyed flycatcher's, self-consciousness; that of the hermit⁴⁷ thrush spiritual serenity⁴⁸: while there is something military in the call of the robin⁴⁹.
 
The red-eye is classed among the flycatchers by some writers, but is much more of a worm-eater, and has few of the traits or habits of the Muscicapa or the true Sylvia. He resembles somewhat the warbling vireo, and the two birds are often confounded by careless observers. Both warble in the same cheerful strain, but the latter more continuously and rapidly. The red-eye is a larger, slimmer bird, with a faint bluish crown, and a light line over the eye. His movements are peculiar. You may see him hopping⁵⁰ among the limbs, exploring then under side of the leaves, peering to the right and left, now flitting a few feet, now hopping as many, and warbling incessantly⁵¹, occasionally in a subdued⁵² tone, which sounds from a very indefinite distance. When he has found a worm to his liking⁵³, he turns lengthwise of the limb and and bruises⁵⁴ its head with his beak⁵⁵ before devouring⁵⁶ it.
 
As I enter the woods the slate-colored snowbird starts up before me and chirps⁵⁷ sharply. His protest when thus disturbed is almost metallic⁵⁸ in its sharpness. He breeds here, and is not esteemed⁵⁹ a snowbird at all, as he disappears at the near approach of winter, and returns again in spring, like the song sparrow, and is not in any way associated with the cold and snow. So different are the habits of birds in different localities. Even the crow does not winter here, and is seldom seen after December or before March.
 
The snowbird, or "black chipping-bird," as it is known among the farmers, is the finest architect of any of the ground-builders known to me. The site of its nest is usually some low bank by the roadside, near a wood. In a slight excavation⁶⁰, with a partially⁶¹ concealed⁶² entrance, the exquisite⁶³ structure is placed. Horse and cow hair are plentifully⁶⁴ used, imparting to the interior of the nest great symmetry and firmness as well as softness.
 
Passing down through the maple³³ arches, barely pausing to observe the antics of a trio of squirrels,—two gray ones and a black one,—I cross an ancient brush fence and am fairly within the old hemlocks, and in one of the most primitive⁶⁵, undisturbed nooks. In the deep moss²⁴ I tread as with muffled⁶⁶ feet, and the pupils of my eyes dilate⁶⁷ in the dim, almost religious light. The irreverent red squirrels, however, run and snicker at my approach, or mock the solitude¹¹ with their ridiculous chattering⁶⁸ and frisking.
 
This nook is the chosen haunt of the winter wren⁶⁹. This is the only place and these the only woods in which I find him in this vicinity. His voice fills these dim aisles, as if aided by some marvelous sounding-board. Indeed, his song is very strong for so small a bird, and unites in a remarkable⁷⁰ degree brilliancy and plaintiveness⁷¹. I think of a tremulous vibrating tongue of silver. You may know it is the song of a wren, from its gushing⁷² lyrical character; but you must needs look sharp to see the little minstrel, especially while in the act of singing. He is nearly the color of the ground and the leaves; he never ascends⁷³ the tall trees, but keeps low, flitting from stump⁷⁴ to stump and from root to root, dodging⁷⁵ in and out of his hiding-places, and watching all intruders with a suspicious eye. He has a very pert, almost comical look. His tail stands more that perpendicular⁷⁶: it points straight toward his head. He is the least ostentatious singer I know of. He does not strike an attitude, and lift up his head in preparation, and, as it were, clear his throat; but sits there on a log and pours out his music, looking straight before him, or even down at the ground. As a songster, he has but few superiors. I do not hear him after the first week in July.
 
While sitting on this soft-cushioned log, tasting the pungent⁷⁷ acidulous⁷⁸ wood-sorrel, the blossoms of which, large and pink-veined, rise everywhere above the moss, a rufous-colored bird flies quickly past, and, alighting on a low limb a few rods off, salutes⁷⁹ me with "Whew! Whew!" or "Whoit! Whoit!" almost as you would whistle for your dog. I see by his impulsive⁸⁰, graceful⁸¹ movement, and his dimly speckled breast, that it is a thrush. Presently he utters a few soft, mellow⁸², flute-like notes, one of the most simple expressions of melody to be heard, and scuds⁸³ away, and I see it is the veery, or Wilson's thrush. He is the least of the thrushes in size, being about that of the common bluebird, and he may be distinguished⁸⁴ from his relatives by the dimness of the spots upon his breast. The wood thrush has very clear, distinct oval spots on a white ground; in the hermit, the spots run more into lines, on a ground of a faint bluish white; in the veery, the marks are almost obsolete⁸⁵, and a few rods off his breast presents only a dull yellowish appearance. To get a good view of him you have only to sit down in his haunts, as in such cases he seems equally anxious to get a good view of you.
 
From those tall hemlocks proceeds a very fine insect-like warble, and occasionally I see a spray tremble, or catch the flit of a wing. I watch and watch till my head grows dizzy and my neck is in danger of permanent displacement⁸⁶, and still do not get a good view. Presently the bird darts⁸⁷, or, as it seems, falls down a few feet in pursuit of a fly or a moth⁸⁸, and I see the whole of it, but in the dim light am undecided. It is for such emergencies that I have brought my gun. A bird in the hand is worth half a dozen in the bush, even for ornithological⁹⁰ purposes; and no sure and rapid-progress can be made in the study without taking life, without procuring⁹¹ specimens⁹². This bird is a warbler, plainly enough, from his habits and manner; but what kind of warbler? Look on him and name him: a deep orange or flame-colored throat and breast; the same color showing also in a line over the eye and in his crown; back variegated⁹³ black and white. The female is less marked and brilliant. The orange-throated warbler would seem to be his right name, his characteristic cognomen⁹⁴; but no, he is doomed⁹⁵ to wear the name of some discoverer, perhaps the first who rifled his nest or robbed him of his mate,—Blackburn; hence Blackburnian warbler. The burn seems appropriate enough, for in these dark evergreens⁹⁶ his throat and breast show like flame. He has a very fine warble, suggesting that of the redstart, but not especially musical. I find him in not other woods in this vicinity.
 
I am attracted by another warble in the same locality, and experience a like difficulty in getting a good view of the author of it. It is quite a noticeable strain, sharp and sibilant, and sounds well amid the the old trees. In the upland woods of beech⁹⁷ and maple it is a more familiar sound than in these solitudes. On taking the bird in hand, one can not help exclaiming, "How beautiful!" So tiny and elegant, the smallest of the warblers; a delicate blue back, with a slight bronze-colored triangular⁹⁸ spot between the shoulders; upper mandible black; lower mandible yellow as gold; throat yellow, becoming a dark bronze on the breast. Blue yellow-back he is called, though the yellow is much nearer a bronze. He is remarkably⁹⁹ delicate and beautiful,—the handsomest as he is the smallest of the warblers known to me. It is never without surprise that I find amid these rugged¹⁰⁰, savage¹⁰¹ aspects of nature creatures so fairy and delicate. But such is the law. Go to the sea or climb the mountain, and with the ruggedest and the savagest you will find likewise the fairest and the most delicate. The greatness and the minuteness of nature pass all understanding.
 
Ever since I entered the woods, even while listening to the lesser¹⁰² songsters, or contemplating¹⁰³ the silent forms about me, a strain has reached my ears from out of the depths of the forest that to me is the finest sound in nature,—the song of the hermit thrush. I often hear him thus a long way off, sometimes over a quarter of a mile away, when only the stronger and more perfect parts of his music reach me; and through the general chorus of wrens¹⁰⁴ and warblers I detect this sound rising pure and serene¹⁰⁵, as if a spirit from some remote height were slowly chanting a divine accompaniment. This song appeals to the sentiment of the beautiful in me, and suggests a serene religious beatitude as no other sound in nature does. It is perhaps more of an evening than a morning hymn¹⁰⁶,
 
though I hear it at all hours of the day. It is very simple, and I can hardly tell the secret of its charm. "O spheral, spheral!" he seems to say; "O holy, holy! O clear away, clear away! O clear up, clear up!" interspersed¹⁰⁷ with the finest trills and the most delicate preludes¹⁰⁸. It is not a proud, gorgeous strain, like the tanager's or the grosbeak's; suggests no passion or emotion,—nothing personal,—but seems to be the voice of that calm, sweet solemnity one attains¹¹⁰ to in his best moments. It realizes a peace and a deep, solemn joy that only the finest souls may know. A few nights ago I ascended¹¹¹ a mountain to see the world by moonlight, and when near the summit the hermit commenced his evening hymn a few rods from me. Listening to this strain on the lone¹¹² mountain, with the full moon just rounded from the horizon, the pomp of your cities and the pride of your civilization seemed trivial and cheap.
 
I have seldom known two of these birds to be singing at the same time in the same locality, rivaling each other, like the wood thrush or the veery. Shooting one from a tree, I have observed another take up the strain from almost the identical perch¹¹³ in less than ten minutes afterward¹¹⁴. Later in the day, when I had penetrated¹¹⁵ the heart of the old Barkpeeling, I came suddenly upon one singing from a low stump, and for a wonder he did not seem alarmed, but lifted up 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 acquainted with scarcely any writer on ornithology whose head is not muddled¹¹⁶ on the subject of our three prevailing¹¹⁷ song-thrushes, confounding either their figures or their songs. A writer in the "Atlantic" [Footnote: For December, 1853] gravely tells us the wood thrush is sometimes called the hermit, and then, after describing the song of the hermit with great beauty and correctness, cooly ascribes it to the veery! The new Cyclopaedia, fresh from the study of Audubon, says the hermit's song consists of a single plaintive note, and that the veery's resembles that of the wood thrush! The hermit thrush may be easily identified by his color; his back being a clear olive-brown becoming rufous on his rum and tail. A quill¹¹⁸ from his wing placed beside one from his tail on a dark ground presents quite a marked contrast.
 
I walk along the old road, and note the tracks in the thin layer of mud. When do these creatures travel here? I have never yet chanced to meet one. Here a partridge has set its foot; there, a woodcock; here, a squirrel or mink¹¹⁹; thee, a skunk¹²⁰; there, a fox. What a clear, nervous track reynard makes! how easy to distinguish it from that of a little dog,—it is so sharply cut and defined! A dog's track is coarse and clumsy beside it. There is as much wildness in the track of an animal as in its voice. Is a deer's track like a sheep's or a goat's? What winged-footed fleetness and agility¹²¹ may be inferred from the sharp, braided track of the gray squirrel upon the new snow! Ah! in nature is the best discipline. How wood-life sharpens the senses, giving a new power to the eye, the ear, the nose! And are not the rarest and most exquisite songsters wood-birds?
 
Everywhere in these solitudes I am greeted with the pensive¹²², almost pathetic not of the wood pewee. The pewees are the true flycatchers, and are easily identified. They are very characteristic birds, have strong family traits and pugnacious¹²³ dispositions¹²⁴. They are the least attractive or elegant birds of our fields or forests. Sharp-shouldered, big-headed, short-legged, of no particular color, of little elegance¹²⁵ in flight or movement, with a disagreeable flirt¹²⁶ of the tail, always quarreling with their neighbors and with one another, no birds are so little calculated to excite pleasurable emotions in the beholder¹²⁷, or to become objects of human interest and affection. The kingbird is the best dressed member of the family, but he is a braggart¹²⁸; and, though always snubbing his neighbors, is an arrant¹²⁹ coward, and shows the white feather at the slightest display of pluck in his antagonist¹³⁰. I have seen him turn tail to a swallow, and have known the little pewee in question to whip him beautifully. From the great-crested to the little green flycatcher, their ways and general habits are the same. Slow in flying from point to point, they yet have a wonderful quickness, and snap up the fleetest insects with little apparent effort. There is a constant play of quick, nervous movements underneath¹³¹ their outer show of calmness and stolidity¹³². They do not scour¹³³ the limbs and trees like the warblers, but, perched upon the middle branches, wait, like true hunters, for the game to come along. There is often a very audible snap of the beak as they seize their prey²⁰.
 
The wood pewee, the prevailing species in this locality, arrests your attention by his sweet, pathetic cry. There is room for it also in the deep woods, as well as for the more prolonged and elevated strains.
 
Its relative, the phoebe-bird, builds an exquisite nest of moss on the side of some shelving cliff or overhanging rock. The other day, passing by a ledge¹³⁴, near the top of a mountain in a singularly desolate¹³⁵ locality, my eye rested upon one of these structures, looking precisely¹³⁶ as if it grew there, so in keeping was it with the mossy character of the rock, and I have had a growing affection for the bird ever since. The rock seemed to love the nest and claim it as its own. I said, what a lesson in architecture is here! Here is a house that was built, but with such loving care and such beautiful adaptation of the means to the end, that it looks like a product of nature. The same wise economy is noticeable in the nests of all birds. No bird could paint its house white or red, or add aught for show.
 
At one point in the grayest, most shaggy part of the woods, I come suddenly upon a brood of screech¹³⁷ owls¹³⁸, full grown, sitting together upon a dry, moss-draped limb, but a few feet from the ground. I pause within four or five yards of them and am looking about me, when my eye lights upon these, gray, motionless figures. They sit perfectly¹³⁹ upright, some with their backs and some with their breasts toward me, but every head turned squarely in my direction. Their eyes are closed to a mere¹⁴⁰ black line; though this crack they are watching me, evidently thinking themselves unobserved. The spectacle is weird¹⁴¹ and grotesque¹⁴². It is a new effect, the night side of the woods by daylight. After observing them a moment I take a single step toward them, when, quick as thought, their eyes fly wide open, their attitude is changed, they bend, some this way, some that, and, instinct with life and motion, stare wildly about them. Another step, and they all take flight but one, which stoops low on the branch, and with the look of a frightened cat regards me for a few seconds over its shoulder. They fly swiftly and softly, and disperse¹⁴³ through the trees. I shoot one, which is of a tawny¹⁴⁴ red tint¹⁴⁵, like that figured by Wilson. It is a singular fact that the plumage of these owls presents two totally distinct phases which "have no relation to sex, age, or season," one being an ashen

Join or Log In! You need to log in to continue reading

Create a new account   I have a account already

	Create an New Account
Email:  (User Name)
Password:	Letters and numbers only. 6-20 characters.
Retype Password:
Screen Name:	Letters and numbers only. 6-50 Characters.
Confirmation Code:	(Please type in the characters in the green image.)

	Login into Your Account
Email:
Password:
	Remember me on this computer.

(Left Keyword <-) Previous: I THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS Back Next: III THE ADIRONDACKS (Right Keyword:->)