Part 10

The chimney was much used by this interesting family until the 24th of August. Early in the morning of that day a large number of Swifts were seen gathering in a flock at a short distance from the house. Ten o'clock that night I searched the chimney with a lighted candle, but found no sign of life, and I believe that the Swifts did not again enter within its walls.

Three Cobb's Island Pictures

BY WILLIAM L. BAILY

Right out on the sandy beach, just above high tide, the Black Skimmer risks her set of eggs, and, while apparently unprotected, they are so much the color of the sand and the surrounding shells and seaweed that they would not be noticed unless you were especially looking for them.

The Skimmers are gull-like in form, with long, slender body and long wings, spreading almost three feet. They have a glossy black back, white breast, orange feet, and a most curiously shaped orange bill, which is almost as thin as a knife, the thin edges closing vertically together. This peculiarity has given the bird the name of 'Razor Bill.'

Their graceful and regular flight can hardly be mistaken for that of any other bird. They skim just over the surface of the water, following the contour of the waves, while the lower mandible of their bill, which is longer than the upper, projects below the surface of the water, and when it comes in contact with a small fish, the latter simply slide up the narrow, inclined plane into the Skimmer's mouth.

Formerly they bred in great numbers along the eastern coast of our Middle and Southern Atlantic states, and only a few years ago were abundant on the New Jersey coast. They have been crowded out, however, by encroaching civilization, and hunted down by the milliners' agents and the egg-collectors. In June, 1898, I found them on Cobb's Island, Virginia, to the number of about two hundred pairs, where, not long ago, they bred in thousands.

As the eggs are entirely exposed, the parents are relieved to some extent from the duty of incubation by the heat of the sun, and as soon as the young hatch they run about like chickens.

After getting two good pictures of the Skimmer and her eggs, I turned my attention to a Gull-billed Tern, and while standing over her nest, which contained two eggs and one fuzzy young, just hatched, I obtained a rather remarkable picture of the parent bird flying straight at the camera, nicely illustrating what a small sectional area a bird occupies while flying.

The Cardinal at the Hub

BY ELLA GILBERT IVES

With Photographs from nature by Blanche Kendall

His range being southern, Cardinal Grosbeak seldom travels through New England; and, to my knowledge, has never established a home and reared a family north of Connecticut until in the instance here recorded. Kentuckians claim him, and with some show of right, since James Lane Allen built his monument in imperishable prose. But, soon or late, all notables come to Boston, and among them may now be registered the "Kentucky Cardinal."

Shy by nature, conspicuous in plumage, he shuns publicity; and, avoiding the main lines of travel, he put up at a quiet country house in a Boston suburb--Brookline.

Here, one October day in 1897, among the migrants stopping at this half-way house, appeared a distinguished guest, clad in red, with a black mask, a light red bill, and a striking crest; with him a bird so like him that they might have been called the two Dromios. After a few days, the double passed on and left our hero the only red-coat in the field. A White-throated Sparrow now arrived from the mountains, and a Damon and Pythias friendship sprang up between the birds. Having decided to winter at the North, they took lodgings in a spruce tree, and came regularly to the table d'hote on the porch. My lord Cardinal, being the more distinguished guest, met with particular favor, and soon became welcome at the homes of the neighborhood. With truly catholic taste, he refused creature comforts from none, but showed preference for his first abode.

It was March 5, 1898, when we kept our first appointment with the Cardinal. A light snow had fallen during the night, and the air was keen, without premonition of spring. It was a day for home-keeping birds, the earth larder being closed. The most delicate tact was required in presenting strangers. A loud, clear summons,--the Cardinal's own whistle echoed by human lips--soon brought a response. Into the syringa bush near the porch flew, with a whir and a sharp _tsip_, a bird. How gorgeous he looked in the snow-laden shrub! For an instant the syringa blossoms loaded the air with fragrance as a dream of summer floated by. Then a call to the porch was met by several sallies and quick retreats, while the wary bird studied the newcomers. Reassuring tones from his gentle hostess, accompanied by the rattle of nuts and seeds, at last prevailed, and the Cardinal flew to the railing and looked us over with keen, inquiring eye. Convinced that no hostilities were intended, he gave a long, trustful look into the face of his benefactress and flew to her feet.

A gray squirrel frisking by stopped at the lunch-counter and seized an 'Educator' cracker.

The novel sensation of an uncaged bird within touch, where one might note the lovely shading of his plumage as one notes a flower, was memorable; but a sweeter surprise was in store. As we left the house, having made obeisance to his eminence the Cardinal, the bird flew into a spruce tree and saluted us with a melodious "Mizpah." Then, as if reading the longing of our hearts, he opened his bright bill, and a song came forth such as never before enraptured the air of a New England March,--a song so copious, so free, so full of heavenly hope, that it seemed as if forever obliterated were the "tragic memories of his race."

As March advanced, several changes in the Cardinal were noted by his ever-watchful friends. He made longer trips abroad, returning tired and hungry. The restlessness of the unsatisfied heart was plainly his. His long, sweet, interpolating whistle, variously rendering "Peace ... peace ... peace!" "Three cheers, three cheers," etc., to these sympathetic northern ears became "Louise, Louise, Louise!" Thenceforth he was Louis, the Cardinal, calling for his mate.

On March 26, a kind friend took pity on the lonely bachelor, and a caged bird, "Louise," was introduced to him. In the lovely dove-colored bird, with faint washings of red and the family mask and crest, the Cardinal at once recognized his kind. His joy was unbounded; and the acquaintance progressed rapidly, a mutual understanding being plainly reached during the seventeen days of cage courtship. Louis brought food to Louise, and they had all things in common except liberty.

April 12, in the early morning, the cage was taken out-of-doors and Louise was set free. She was quick to embrace her chance, and flew into the neighboring shrubbery. For six days she reveled in her new-found freedom; Louis, meanwhile, coming and going as of old, and often carrying away seeds from the house to share with his mate.

April 16, he lured her into the house, and after that they came often for food, flying fearlessly in at the window, and delighting their friends with their songs and charming ways. Louis invariably gave the choicest morsels to his mate, and the course of true love seemed to cross the adage; but alas! Death was already adjusting an arrow for that shining mark.

April 25, Louise stayed in the house all day, going out at nightfall. Again the following day she remained indoors, Louis feeding her; but her excellent appetite disarmed suspicion, and it was thought that she had taken refuge from the cold and rain, especially as she spent the night within. The third morning, April 27, she died. An examination of her body revealed three dreadful wounds.

Louis came twittering to the window, but was not let in until a day or two after, when a new bird, "Louisa," had been put in the cage. When he saw the familiar form, he evidently thought his lost love restored, for he burst into glorious song; but, soon discovering his mistake, he stopped short in his hallelujahs, and walked around the cage inspecting the occupant.

Louisa's admiration for the Cardinal was marked; but for some days he took little notice of her, and his friends began to fear that their second attempt at matchmaking would prove a failure. April 30, however, some responsive interest was shown, and the next day Louis brought to the cage a brown bug half an inch long, and gave Louisa his first meat-offering.

The second wooing progressed rapidly, and May 7, when Louisa was set free, the pair flew away together with unrestrained delight. After three days of liberty, Louisa flew back to the house with her mate, and thenceforth was a frequent visitor.

May 21, Louisa was seen carrying straws, and on June 6 her nest was discovered low down in a dense evergreen thorn (_Cratægus pyracantha_). Four speckled eggs lay in the nest. These were hatched June 9, the parent birds, meantime and afterward, going regularly to market and keeping up social relations with their friends.

In nine days after their exit from the shell, the little Cardinals left the nest and faced life's sterner realities. A black cat was their worst foe, and more than once during their youth Louis flew to his devoted commissary and made known his anxiety. Each time, on following him to the nest, she found the black prowler, or one of his kind, watching for prey. On June 28, the black cat outwitted the allied forces, Señor Cardinal and his friends, and a little one was slain. The other three grew up and enjoyed all the privileges of their parents, flying in at the window and frequenting the bountiful porch.

July 25, Louisa disappeared from the scene, presumably on a southern trip, leaving the Cardinal sole protector, provider and peace-maker for their lively and quarrelsome triplet. A fight is apparently as needful for the development of a young Cardinal as of an English schoolboy, possibly due in both cases to a meat diet.

Over-feeding was but temporary with our birds. On the 8th of August the migratory instinct prevailed over ease, indulgence, friendship, and the Cardinal with his brood left the house where he had been so well entertained, to return no more. No more? Who shall say of any novel that it can have no sequel? Massachusetts may yet become the permanent home of the Kentucky Cardinal, the descendant to the third and fourth generation of Louis and his mate.

A Catbird Study

BY DR. THOS. S. ROBERTS

Director Department of Birds, Natural History Survey of Minnesota.

With Photographs from nature by the Author.

The subjects of this sketch had located their bark- and root-lined nest of coarse sticks, four feet from the ground, in a little oak bush surrounded by brakes, sunflowers, and hazel. Instead of being, as usual, in the midst of a dense, and, therefore, dark thicket, this nest was quite in the open, shaded by only a few overhanging, leafy branches of small size. Its exceptionally favorable location and the apparent tameness of the birds suggested an attempt at avian photography, and the undertaking was entered upon at once, a very considerable fund of interest and enthusiasm having to take the place of any special previous experience in this line of work. After clearing away a little of the overhanging and intervening vegetation, the camera was placed with the lens not more than two feet from the nest, this being necessary in order to secure an image of the desired size with the short focus lens at hand (a B. and L. Zeiss Anastigmat, Series II A, 6-1/2 × 4-1/4, focal length 5-3/8 inches). Fifty feet of rubber tubing, a large bulb, and a field-glass made it possible to watch developments and carry on operations from a safe distance. But, although the camera was nearly concealed with ferns and leaves, this day's proceedings were not rewarded with much success. The birds proved exasperatingly timid, and returned only after prolonged waits, to disappear instanter on the click of the shutter (a B. and L. iris diaphragm shutter). So we left the field, not disheartened but bent upon improving our paraphernalia. A day or two later found the camera again in position, but this time with tripod green-painted and the whole unsightly top enveloped in a green hood with only a small aperture for the lens. This ruse succeeded fairly well, and during the three or four hours that the light was good on this day, and during a like period on a subsequent day, a number of exposures were made that resulted in an interesting series of negatives, giving good prints and still better lantern slides.

Only one of several time-exposures turned out perfect. It is here presented, not only as the prize picture of some three hundred negatives made during the summer of 1898, but as the sole and only entirely satisfactory outcome of some twelve or fourteen hours' work.

=For Teachers and Students=

On the Ethics of Caging Birds

BY OLIVE THORNE MILLER

Before saying a few words on this subject, I should like to define my position. With all my heart do I disapprove of caging wild birds. I never had, and never shall have, the liberty of one bird interfered with for my pleasure or study, and if I had the power to prevent it, not one should ever be caged. Especially do I regard it as cruel in the extreme to confine an adult bird, accustomed to freedom and able to take care of himself.

The question of "rights" we will not enter upon here, further than to say that our moral right to capture wild creatures for our own use or pleasure is the same in the case of birds as of other animals--horses, for example.

But birds _are_ caged, and we must deal with circumstances as we find them. If a bird-lover should worry and fret himself to death, he could not put an end to their captivity. So it would appear to be the part of wisdom to see if there are not mitigating circumstances, which may comfort, and perhaps, in a slight degree, even reconcile one to their imprisonment.

The case of Canaries is different from that of all others. Hatched in cages, descended from caged ancestry, and accustomed to be cared for by people, they know no other life, and are utterly unfitted for freedom. So far from being a kindness to set one of these birds free, it is absolute cruelty. It is like turning a child, accustomed to a luxurious life, into the streets, to pick up a living for himself.

But a young bird, taken from the nest before he has learned the use of his wings, I believe, can be made perfectly contented and happy in a house--_if he is properly cared for!_

It is unfortunately true that not one in a thousand _is_ properly cared for, but we are not considering the shortcomings of people. At this moment we are considering the possibility of making a bird's life happy.

For several years I kept birds in captivity, and closely studied their ways and their characters, and I say, without hesitation, that most birds can be made so contented and happy that they will prefer their captivity, with its several advantages, to freedom without them. The advantages of captivity to a bird are three; viz., abundant food supply, protection from enemies, ease of life--without labor or concern about weather.

The conditions, therefore, necessary to his happiness are: Never-failing care as to his physical comforts--such as a proper situation of the cage,--neither in the hot sunshine nor in a draught; fresh and perfect food, with variety; plenty of fresh water; suitable and regular bath, etc. And secondly--though perhaps it should be first, as it is most important--treatment as if he were a sentient being, instead of a piece of furniture; talking to him, taking notice of him, making a companion and friend of him. And thirdly, the freedom of a room, at least part of every day.

Under these conditions, as I know from close and sympathetic observation, our little brothers can be made so happy, that, as I said, many of them will not accept their liberty. They choose between freedom, with hard labor and many anxieties, and comfortable captivity, with ease and security, and many decide--as do many of the human family--for the former.

There is another reason why I have become partially tolerant of the caging of birds. What first influenced me was the fact that every individual rescued from the discomforts of a bird store, where they are seldom well cared for and never cherished, is greatly benefitted, and I felt that to be a work of charity.

But there is one strong argument in favor of the custom. That is, their great value as a means of educating children. Nothing is more important than the training of our youth in humanity and respect for the rights of others. And in no way can this be so well accomplished as by giving to them the care of pets. By investigation of prisons and reform schools, it has been amply proved that nothing so surely keeps a boy from falling into a criminal life as the care of and kindness to the lower orders. The daily care of a pet bird is a daily lesson in altruism which never fails to bear fruit.

In those precious first years of the child's life, when the mother has the power of instilling lessons that will be a part of him,--the most indelible he will ever receive,--if she takes a little pains to do so she can implant, with the love of creatures dependent upon him, qualities that will go far to make him a true, manly man.

While these considerations do not, perhaps, make it right to deprive a fellow creature of his liberty, they do furnish a little consolation to those who love humanity as well as birds. At the same time I must admit, that of all pitiful sights on earth, that of a neglected captive is one of the most heartrending.

A May Morning

BY FRED. H. KENNARD

There is a bird pasture, as I call it, about a half hour's ride from Boston, and thither I went on May 30, 1898, to see if I could find the nest of a White-eyed Vireo that I had often hunted for in years gone by, but never yet succeeded in finding.

This bird pasture, on one side of which runs the road, consists of eight or ten acres of old, wet pasture land on a hillside surrounded on two other sides by fields and an orchard, and immediately above a marsh in which the sedges and grasses grow luxuriantly, and which is bordered by alders, birches and other swamp-loving trees. The pasture itself is very wet in one portion, and has been overgrown with birch, alders, oak and tangles of grapevines, wait-a-bits, poison ivy, etc. In another part it is more open, and is more sparsely covered with red cedars and white pines, while the ground is dotted with wild roses and hard-hack, interspersed with clumps of alders. This combination of hill and marsh, field and orchard, cover and open, as well as evergreen and deciduous growth, makes it an ideal place for birds and their breeding; and one that is hard to duplicate in any locality, combining also woods and civilization as it does, for there are houses and barns in the immediate vicinity. You probably cannot duplicate this pasture, but those of you who love birds, and who can find any spot approximating this in conditions, would do well to appropriate it, metaphorically speaking, as I have this.

But to return to the birds--I thought I would carefully note all those I saw or heard in the course of a short hour I had to spare, and with the following results: As I took down the bars in order to take my bicycle into the pasture, a Baltimore Oriole was singing on top of an elm close by, and I have no doubt that its mate was sitting on the nest that hung pendent from the next tree. A Catbird slunk off into the bushes to the right of me, from a thicket in which she last year raised a brood; and, while chaining my wheel, I heard the glorious notes of a Brown Thrasher singing, a little way off, on the top of a tall white oak. Several Red-eyed Vireos were there too, their steady, rippling song forming a soft accompaniment to the more conspicuous notes of the other feathered songsters. Next, I flushed a Quail, and, while watching its flight, I almost stepped on two more, which got up from the under-brush at my feet.

I started in now on my hunt for the White-eye's nest, and for some time was so absorbed in that, and in listening for its expected song, that there was no time to make notes of the other birds heard, except that of a Wood Thrush, whose nest contained four eggs, and was saddled on the crotch of a grape-vine, where it crossed through the crotch of an alder.

To make a long story short, I did not find the Vireos, or even hear them, though for several years they had lived here throughout the summer. I finally went out into an open space, lighted a pipe as a mosquito preventive, and, seating myself on the soft side of a boulder, put down the names of the birds whose notes I could hear.

Below me, in the swamp, the most prominent notes were the 'concarees' of the Red-winged Blackbirds, while between them could be heard the songs of several Swamp Sparrows. Close beside me were a Chestnut-sided and a Golden-winged Warbler, both seemingly much disturbed by my presence, while just as near was a Maryland Yellow-throat, an old friend of mine, who did not seem to care whether I was there or not. This same friend is rather a curiosity, for, although his species usually build in or about the marshes or swamps, he always prefers the hillside, and I last year found his nest within forty feet of where I sat, and several hundred feet away from and above the swamp.

A few Cedar Birds were whispering from the tops of a couple of red cedars about fifty yards away, and I could hear a Yellow Warbler on the other side of the open space, where he sang, apparently for the benefit of a near-by barberry bush.

A Wood Pewee was uttering his plaintive note from the orchard immediately back of me; while just back of that, in the field by the top of the hill, could be heard the rollicking notes of a Bobolink and the occasional call of a Meadow Lark. While writing my notes, some kind of a large Hawk, which flew so fast that identification was impossible, but which I guessed to be a Cooper's Hawk, went off rapidly across the marsh, pursued by a pair of vociferous Kingbirds; and, as I watched them, I could see numbers of Chimney Swifts, from the neighboring chimneys, and Barn Swallows, from a barn close by, coursing about above the marsh after the insects that there abound, the Swallows low down and the Swifts above. While watching the Swallows, two Crows came out of the wood on the opposite side of the marsh, and flew, cawing, across and off into the distance; and a little Green Heron, who, like all fishermen, prefers quiet, flew off in another direction.

Down towards the edge of the swamp, in the outlying thicket, a Song Sparrow was singing, while, close by, a magnificent Rose-breasted Grosbeak, which every year builds in the birches which grow in these thickets, was warbling his incomparable song. At first he had been giving vent to his very unmusical call of alarm, but, becoming used to my presence, and concluding that I meant no harm, he joined in the concert.