When, one summer day, later in life, I took my gun and went to the woods again, in a different though perhaps a less simple spirit I found my youthful vision more than realized. There were, indeed, other birds, plenty of them, singing, nesting, breeding, among the familiar trees, which I had before passed by unheard and unseen.
It is a surprise that awaits every student of ornithology8, and the thrill of delight that accompanies it, and the feeling of fresh, eager inquiry9 that follows, can hardly be awakened10 by any other pursuit. Take the first step in ornithology, procure11 one new specimen12, and you are ticketed for the whole voyage. There is a fascination13 about it quite overpowering. It fits so well with other things,—with fishing, hunting, farming, walking, camping-out,—with all that takes one to the fields and woods. One may go a-blackberrying and make some rare discovery; or, while driving his cow to pasture, hear a new song, or make a new observation. Secrets lurk14 on all sides. There is news in every bush. Expectation is ever on tiptoe. What no man ever saw before may the next moment be revealed to you. What a new interest the woods have! How you long to explore every nook and corner of them! You would even find consolation15 in being lost in them. You could then hear the night birds and the owls16, and, in your wanderings, might stumble upon some unknown specimen.
In all excursions to the woods or to the shore, the student of ornithology has an advantage over his companions. He has one more resource, one more avenue of delight. He, indeed, kills two birds with one 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 at home, while a new note or a new song drowns all care. Audubon, on the desolate17 coast of Labrador, is happier than any king ever was; and on shipboard is nearly cured of his seasickness18 when a new gull19 appears in sight.
One must taste it to understand or appreciate its fascination. The looker-on sees nothing to inspire such enthusiasm. Only a few feathers and a half-musical note or two; why all this ado? "Who would give a hundred and twenty dollars to know about the birds?" said an Eastern governor, half contemptuously, to Wilson, as the latter solicited20 a subscription21 to his great work. Sure enough. Bought knowledge is dear at any price. The most precious things have no commercial value. It is not, your Excellency, mere22 technical knowledge of the birds that you are asked to purchase, but a new interest in the fields and the woods, a new moral and intellectual tonic23, a new key to the treasure-house of Nature. Think of the many other things your Excellency would get,—the air, the sunshine, the healing fragrance24 and coolness, and the many respites25 from the knavery26 and turmoil27 of political life.
Yesterday was an October day of rare brightness and warmth. I spent the most of it in a wild, wooded gorge28 of Rock Creek29. A persimmon-tree which stood upon the bank had dropped some of its fruit in the water. As I stood there, half-leg deep, picking them up, a wood duck came flying down the creek and passed over my head. Presently it returned, flying up; then it came back again, and, sweeping30 low around a bend, prepared to alight in a still, dark reach 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. In the stillness I could hear the whistle of its wings and the splash of the water when it took flight. Near by I saw where a raccoon had come down to the water for fresh clams31, leaving his long, sharp track in the mud and sand. Before I had passed this hidden stretch of water, a pair of those mysterious thrushes, the gray-cheeked, flew up from the ground and perched on a low branch.
Who can tell how much this duck, this footprint in the sand, and these strange thrushes from the far north, enhanced the interest and charm of the autumn woods?
Ornithology cannot be satisfactorily learned from the books. The satisfaction is in learning it from nature. One must have an original experience with the birds. The books are only the guide, the invitation. Though there remain not another new species to describe, any young person with health and enthusiasm has open to him or her the whole field anew, and is eligible33 to experience all the thrill and delight of the original discoverers.
But let me say, in the same breath, that the books can by no manner of means be dispensed34 with. A copy of Wilson or Audubon, for reference and to compare notes with, is invaluable35. In lieu of these, access to some large museum or collection would be a great help. In the beginning, one finds it very difficult 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 of books; they are the charts to sail by; the route is mapped out, and much time and labor36 are thereby37 saved. First find your bird; observe its ways, its song, its calls, its flight, its haunts; then shoot it (not ogle38 it with a glass), and compare it with Audubon. [footnote: My later experiences have led me to prefer a small field-glass to a gun.] In this way the feathered kingdom may soon be conquered.
The ornithologists divide and subdivide40 the birds into a great many orders, families, genera, species etc., which, at first sight, are apt to confuse and discourage the reader. But any interested person can acquaint himself with most of our song-birds by keeping in mind a few general divisions, and observing the characteristics of each. By far the greater number of our land-birds are either warblers, vireos, flycatchers, thrushes, or finches.
The warblers are, perhaps, the most puzzling. These are the true Sylvia, the real wood-birds. They are small, very active, but feeble songsters, and, to be seen, must be sought for. In passing through the woods, most persons have a vague consciousness of slight chirping44, semi-musical sounds in the trees overhead. In most cases these sounds proceed from the warblers. Throughout the Middle and Eastern States, half a dozen species or so may be found in almost every locality, as the redstart, the Maryland yellow-throat, the yellow warbler (not the common goldfinch, with black cap, and black wings and tail), the hooded45 warbler, the black and white creeping warbler; or others, according to the locality and the character of the woods. In pine or hemlock46 woods, one species may predominate; in maple47 or oak woods, or in mountainous districts, another. The subdivisions of ground warblers, the most common members of which are the Maryland yellow-throat, the Kentucky warbler, and the mourning ground warbler, are usually found in low, wet, bushy, or half-open woods, often on and always near the ground. The summer yellowbird, or yellow warbler, is not now a wood-bird at all, being found in orchards48 and parks, and along streams and in the trees of villages and cities.
As we go north the number of warblers increases, till, in the northern part of New England, and in the Canadas, as many as ten or twelve varieties may be found breeding in June. Audubon found the black-poll warbler breeding in Labrador, and congratulates himself on being the first white man who had ever seen its nest. When these warblers pass north in May, they seem to go singly or in pairs, and their black caps and striped coats show conspicuously49. When they return in September they are in troops or loose flocks, are of a uniform dull drab or brindlish color, and are very fat. They scour41 the treetops for a few days, almost eluding50 the eye by their quick movements, and are gone.
According to my own observation, the number of species of warblers which one living in the middle districts sees, on their return in the fall, is very small compared with the number he may observe migrating north in the spring.
The yellow-rumped warblers are the most noticeable of all in Autumn. They come about the streets and garden, and seem especially drawn51 to dry, leafless trees. They dart52 spitefully about, uttering a sharp chirp43. In Washington I have seen them in the outskirts54 all winter.
Audubon figures and describes over forty different warblers. More recent writers have divided and subdivided55 the group very much, giving new names to new classifications. But this part is of interest and value only to the professional ornithologist39.
The finest songster among the Sylvia, according to my notions, is the black-throated greenback. Its song is sweet and clear, but brief.
The rarest of the species are Swainson's warbler, said to be disappearing; the cerulean warbler, said to be abundant about Niagara; and the mourning ground warbler, which I have found breeding about the head-waters of the Delaware, in New York.
The vireos, or greenlets, are a sort of connecting link between the warblers and the true flycatchers, and partake of the characteristics of both.
The red-eyed vireo, whose sweet soliloquy is one of the most constant and cheerful sounds in our woods and groves56, is perhaps the most noticeable and abundant species. The vireos are a little larger than the warblers, and are far less brilliant and variegated57 in color.
There are five species found in most of our woods, namely the red-eyed vireo, the white-eyed vireo, the warbling vireo, the yellow-throated vireo, and the solitary58 vireo,—the red-eyed and warbling being most abundant, and the white-eyed being the most lively and animated59 songster. I meet the latter bird only in the thick, bush growths of low, swampy60 localities, where, eluding the observer, it pours forth61 its song with a sharpness and a rapidity of articulation62 that are truly astonishing. This strain is very marked, and, though inlaid with the notes of several other birds, is entirely63 unique. The iris64 of this bird is white, as that of the red-eyed is red, though in neither case can this mark be distinguished65 at more than two or three yards. In most cases the iris of birds is a dark hazel, which passes for black.
The basket-like nest, pendent to the low branches in the woods, which the falling leaves of autumn reveal to all passers, is, in most cases, the nest of the red-eyed, though the solitary constructs a similar tenement66, but in much more remote and secluded67 localities.
Most birds exhibit great alarm and distress68, usually with a strong dash of anger, when you approach their nests; but the demeanor69 of the red-eyed, on such an occasion, is an exception to this rule. The parent birds move about softly amid the branches above, eying the intruder with a curious, innocent look, uttering, now and then, a subdued70 note or plaint, solicitous71 and watchful72, but making no demonstration74 of anger or distress.
The birds, no more than the animals, like to be caught napping; but I remember, one autumn day, coming upon a red-eyed vireo that was clearly oblivious75 to all that was passing around it. It was a young bird, though full grown, and it was taking its siesta76 on a low branch in a remote heathery field. Its head was snugly77 stowed away under its wing, and it would have fallen easy prey78 to the first hawk79 that came along. I approached noiselessly, and when within a few feet of it paused to note its breathings, so much more rapid and full than our own. A bird has 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 it around the winged sleeper80, its sudden terror and consternation81 almost paralyzed it. Then it struggled and cried piteously, and when released hastened and hid itself in some near bushes. I never expected to surprise it thus a second time.
The flycatchers are a larger group than the vireos, with stronger-marked characteristics. They are not properly songsters, but are classed by some writers as screechers. Their pugnacious82 dispositions83 are well known, and they not only fight among themselves, but are incessantly84 quarreling with their neighbors. The kingbird, or tyrant85 flycatcher might serve as the type of the order.
The common or wood pewee excites the most pleasant emotions, both on account of its plaintive86 note and its exquisite87 mossy nest.
The phoebe-bird is the pioneer of the flycatchers, and comes in April, sometimes in March. Its comes familiarly about the house and outbuildings, and usually builds beneath hay-sheds or under bridges.
The flycatchers always take their insect prey on the wing, by a sudden darting88 or swooping89 movement; often a very audible snap of the beak90 may be heard.
These birds are the least elegant, both in form and color, of any of our feathered neighbors. They have short legs, a short neck, large heads, and broad, flat beaks91, with bristles92 at the base. They often fly with a peculiar93 quivering movement of the wings, and when at rest some of the species oscillate their tails at short intervals94.
There are found in the United States nineteen species. In the Middle and Eastern districts, one may observe in summer, without any special search, about five of them, namely, the kingbird, the phoebe-bird, the wood pewee, the great crested95 flycatcher (distinguished from all others by the bright ferruginous color of its tail), and the small green-crested flycatcher.
The thrushes are the birds of real melody, and will afford 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 hop96 along upon the ground, strike an attitude, scratch for a worm, fix his eye upon something before him or upon the beholder97, flip98 his wings suspiciously, fly straight to his perch32, or sit at sundown on some high branch caroling his sweet and honest strain, and you have seen what is characteristic of all the thrushes. Their carriage is preëminently marked by grace, and their songs by melody.
Beside the robin, which is in no sense a woodbird, we have in New York the wood thrush, the hermit100 thrush, the veery, or Wilson's thrush, the olive-backed thrush, and, transiently, one or two other species not so clearly defined.
The wood thrush and the hermit stand at the head as songsters, no two persons, perhaps, agreeing as to which is the superior.
Under the general head of finches, Audubon describes over sixty different birds, ranging from the sparrows to the grosbeaks, and including the buntings, the linnets, the snowbirds, the crossbills, and the redbirds.
We have nearly or quite a dozen varieties of the sparrow in the Atlantic States, but perhaps no more than half that number would be discriminated101 by the unprofessional observer. The song sparrow, which every child knows, comes first; at least, his voice is first heard. And can there be anything more fresh and pleasing than this first simple strain heard from the garden fence or a near hedge, on some bright, still March morning?
The field or vesper sparrow, called also grass finch42 8 and bay-winged sparrow, a bird slightly larger than the song sparrow and of a lighter102 gray color, is abundant in all our upland fields and pastures, and is a very sweet songster. It builds upon the ground, without the slightest cover or protection, and also roosts there. Walking through the fields at dusk, I frequently start them up almost beneath my feet. When disturbed by day, they fly with a quick, sharp movement, showing two white quills103 in the tail. The traveler along the country roads disturbs them earthing their wings in the soft dry earth, or sees them skulking104 and flitting along the fences in front of him. They run in the furrow105 in advance of the team, or perch upon the stones a few rods off. They sing much after sundown, hence the aptness of the name vesper sparrow, which a recent writer, Wilson Flagg, has bestowed106 upon them.
In the meadows and low, wet lands the savanna
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