Part 17
In extending a helping hand to casual and isolated observers, the Union has had a marked influence upon the recent progress of ornithology in America, as shown by the increase in the number of observers who have become contributors to 'The Auk,' and the constantly increasing number who have allied themselves to the Union by membership therein. The constitution of the Union provides for four classes of members; namely, (1) Active Members, limited to fifty, and to include only those who have distinguished themselves as original investigators in ornithology, and who reside in the United States or Canada; (2) Honorary Members, limited to twenty-five, and consisting of the most eminent of foreign ornithologists; (3) Corresponding Members, limited to one hundred, and consisting mainly also of eminent foreign ornithologists; (4) Associate Members, unrestricted as to number, but limited to residence in the United States or Canada. This class includes not only a large number of experienced field workers, but many college professors, educators, and persons eminent in other scientific fields, but who are not expert ornithologists. It is open to all reputable persons whose interest in ornithology is sufficient to prompt them to seek such a congenial alliance.
At the first congress forty-seven ornithologists were elected to active membership--presumably all of the satisfactory candidates available. Of these forty-seven original members, twenty-four were either present or took a prominent part in the organization of the Union, and are thus termed 'Founders.' (The accompanying photograph is a picture of these founders, made up from separate photographs, it being impracticable for the members to assemble to be photographed as a group.) This has remained about the average number, but, as years have passed, the choice for the few coveted places has become harder and harder each year to fill, through the rapid increase of not only available but desirable candidates; so that attainments that would in the earlier days of the Union have proved ample credentials for admission have now less weight, in the effort to select the best from a large otherwise desirable candidacy. The honor of the position has thus become enhanced through competition of merit. The two foreign classes have remained practically unchanged as regards numbers. But the class of Associate Members has increased from about one hundred in 1886 to nearly six hundred in 1898.
The revenue of the Union is derived entirely from the annual dues from members ($5 for active members and $3 for associate members) and subscriptions to 'The Auk.' As the ordinary running expenses of the Union are but a trifle, all of the proceeds from these sources of revenue are devoted to the publications of the Union. These include, besides 'The Auk,' now in its sixteenth volume, the original Code and Check-List of North American Birds (1886), an Abridged Check-List (1889), a separate reprint of the Code alone (1892), the second edition of the Check-List (1895), and nine Supplements to the Check-List (1889-1899), varying in size from about 8 to 36 pages.
'The Auk,' issued quarterly, consists on the average of about 420 pages per year, with at least four fine colored plates, and a greater or less number of text figures, including of late numerous half-tone illustrations of birds in life. As practically all of the funds of the Union are devoted to its publications, and mainly to 'The Auk,' its prosperity as regards its size, the frequency and character of its illustrations, and its influence in promoting the study of ornithology, is limited only by the proceeds from memberships and subscriptions. As it aims to meet the interests and the necessities of both the scientific and the non-scientific reader and contributor, the general articles, comprising more than half of each number, are about equally divided between popular and technical papers, while its department of General Notes (embracing some 15 pages in each number), is about equally acceptable to both classes, as with more or less technical matter for the benefit of the expert are blended notes on the habits and distribution of the lesser known species of our fauna, often of a highly popular character. The department of Recent Literature gives more or less extended notices of the current literature of ornithology, including general works, popular and technical, and of all the principal writings relating to American birds, whether faunal, economic, popular, or technical.
The meetings of the Union occur in November of each year, and heretofore have been held alternately in New York, Washington, and Cambridge or Boston. The present year the meeting, which will be the seventeenth congress of the Union, will be held in Philadelphia, Nov. 13-17, 1899. As usual, the public sessions, beginning on the 14th, will be open to the general public, to which all who are interested in birds are cordially invited.
The Angler's Reveille
BY HENRY VAN DYKE
What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night, And all the drowsy little stars have fallen asleep in light; 'Tis then a wandering wind awakes, and runs from tree to tree, And borrows words from all the birds to sound the reveille.
This is the carol the Robin throws Over the edge of the valley; Listen how boldly it flows, Sally on sally:
_Tirra-lirra, down the river, Laughing water all a-quiver. Day is near, clear, clear. Fish are breaking, Time for waking. Tup, tup, tup! Do you hear? All clear. Wake up!_
The phantom flood of dreams has ebbed and vanished with the dark, And like a dove the heart forsakes the prison of the ark; Now forth she fares through friendly woods and diamond-fields of dew, While every voice cries out "Rejoice!" as if the world were new.
This is the ballad the Bluebird sings, Unto his mate replying, Shaking the tune from his wings While he is flying:
_Surely, surely, surely, Life is dear Even here. Blue above, You to love, Purely, purely, purely._
There's wild azalea on the hill, and roses down the dell, And just a spray of lilac still abloom beside the well; The columbine adorns the rocks, the laurel buds grow pink, Along the stream white arums gleam, and violets bend to drink.
This is the song of the Yellow-throat, Fluttering gaily beside you; Hear how each voluble note Offers to guide you:
_Which way, sir? I say, sir, Let me teach you, I beseech you! Are you wishing Jolly fishing? This way, sir! Let me teach you._
Oh come, forget your foes and fears, and leave your cares behind, And wander forth to try your luck, with cheerful, quiet mind; For be your fortune great or small, you'll take what God may give, And all the day your heart will say, "'Tis luck enough to live."
This is the song the Brown Thrush flings Out of his thicket of roses; Hark how it warbles and rings, Mark how it closes:
_Luck, luck, What luck? Good enough for me! I'm alive, you see. Sun shining, no repining; Never borrow idle sorrow; Drop it! Cover it up! Hold your cup! Joy will fill it, Don't spill it! Steady, be ready, Love your luck!_
The Prairie Horned Lark
BY ROBERT W. HEGNER
With photographs from nature by the author
At intervals throughout the winter, but more often after the first of February, flocks of hardy little brown birds may be seen about Decorah, Ia., wandering from place to place in search of food. They are the Prairie Horned Larks, harbingers of approaching spring. Some weeks later, when the snow has melted, they seek their favorite haunts in the pasture lands, select a slight elevation from the surrounding surface, and proceed to build their nests. They first dig a hole three inches wide and three inches deep in the softened ground, and then line it on the bottom and sides to the depth of an inch with dry grasses, making a warm nest, level with the surface. I accidentally discovered the first one this season on April 9. It was nicely lined with vegetable down in addition to the usual lining of dry grasses, and was finished ready for the eggs. I returned in a week, but, as the mother bird was not at home, had to content myself with a photograph of the three finely spotted eggs which it then contained. Some children who observed my movements may be held responsible for the destruction of the nest, as two days later I could find nothing but the hole from which it had been torn. After a short search another Lark flushed from a nest of three eggs almost identical with the first and about 300 yards from it. Unless incubation is far advanced they seldom flush from directly under foot, nor do they run along the ground first, after the manner of a great many of the ground builders, but keep a good look out, and fly straight from the nest when anyone comes within fifty feet of them. It is needless to say that it takes sharp eyes to discover their exact position.
At my arrival on the bright, sunny morning of April 24, the Lark was at home, and I had another opportunity of trying to photograph her. I focused the camera three feet from the nest and retired to the end of my 60-foot rubber tube. The gophers seemed to be less afraid of me than the Lark, and several of them played together some ten feet away. One little striped rascal began gnawing at the rubber tube, and I was forced to frighten him away. This tube greatly puzzled the Lark, for in running around the camera she always came to a halt upon reaching it, and it was only after repeated trials and much excitement that she screwed up courage enough to hop over. Twenty minutes seemed to be sufficient time to reassure her, and with head lowered she hastened to the nest, looked in, and settled down upon the eggs. An exposure of one twenty-fifth of a second with stop 16 shows her as she was looking into the nest. While I reset my shutter and put in a new plate the Lark left the nest, but this time it took her only two minutes to return. A photograph of a young bird was taken on May 7. The pair of birds that were feeding this young one had already built a second nest, thinner and more loosely put together than the first, and were incubating four eggs.
The enemies of the Prairie Horned Lark seem to be very numerous. The nest and four eggs mentioned above were plowed under to facilitate corn planting, while innumerable nests are destroyed earlier in the season, when the farmers 'break sod.' The first nests in March and April are often subject to great changes of temperature. Although they may be built in warm, sunny weather, a sudden cold wave often covers them with snow and imbeds them in ice.
While waiting for the Lark to become accustomed to the camera, I had an excellent opportunity of observing its song flight. Lying there on my back, I enjoyed a splendid exhibition of one of this bird's peculiar traits. From a point a hundred yards from where I lay a happy songster suddenly arose, flying upward at an angle of 45 degrees, not continuously, but in short stretches. When at a great elevation he began to sing, taking short, quick wing strokes, and singing while he sailed. In this way a circle 300 yards in diameter was crossed and recrossed until fully five minutes had passed, when, suddenly closing his wings, he shot downward like a bullet, slowly catching himself on nearing the ground and curving outward to his starting point. Several similar exhibitions were carried on in exactly the same manner, the time not varying by half a minute. Though the song lacks many of the fine qualities of other birds, it clearly expresses the joy and happiness of the singer. With thrills of pleasure we hear it echo over the hills, and bless the little creature, hoping that in the 'struggle for existence' he may thrive and wax exceeding strong.
A Pleasant Acquaintance with a Hummingbird
BY C. F. HODGE
Clark University, Worcester, Mass.
IN the Nature Study course of the Summer School, a little time was devoted to the honey bee, life of the hive, care and management, and especially the work of bees in cross-pollination of flowers and fruits. The closing "laboratory exercise" in the subject consisted in a honey spread, the honey being removed from the glass hive in the window of the laboratory, in the presence of the class, and distributed with hot biscuits and butter, cream and fresh milk. The spread was pronounced the most enjoyable "laboratory work" ever done by members of the class, but to crown the event in the most exquisite way possible, a Hummingbird flew into an open window, and darting, unafraid, in and out among the noisy groups of fifty or more busy people, it rifled the various flowers with which the laboratory was decorated. In closing the windows for the night it was accidentally imprisoned, and on visiting the room next morning (Sunday), I found it still humming about the flowers. Thinking that it might be a female, with nestlings awaiting its return, I gently placed an insect net over it with the intention of passing it out of the window. It proved, however, on closer inspection, to be a young male, so I thought it could do no harm to keep it a day or two for acquaintance sake. No sooner was my finger, with a drop of honey on it, brought within reach, than it thrust its bill and long tongue out through the net and licked up the honey with evident delight. Releasing it from the net, I dropped honey into a number of the flowers, sprinkling water over them at the same time, and it immediately began feasting and drinking. As it flew about it taught me its bright little chirp, evidently a note of delight and satisfaction. When I visited the laboratory again at noon, I took in my hand a few heads of red clover and a nasturtium with its horn filled with honey. On giving the chirp a few times, it flew straight to the flowers in my hand, probed each clover tube, drank its fill from the nasturtium, and, perching contentedly on my finger, wiped its bill, preened its feathers, spread out its tail, scratched its head, and for the space of a minute or two looked me over and made himself the most delightful of tiny friends. The next time I entered the room, about two hours later, he flew to the door to meet me, and this time I took him home, the better to care for him during the afternoon and evening. In the course of the afternoon about a dozen friends called. Each one was provided with a nasturtium into which a drop of honey had been placed, and nearly the whole time the little bird was flying from one to the other, perching on fingers or sipping from the flowers held in the hand or buttonhole, to the delight of everybody, none of the company having ever seen a live Hummingbird so close by.
In the evening he went to roost high up on a chandelier, and in trying to catch him with the net to put him in a safe cage for the night, he fell like a dead bird to the carpet. I held him warm in my hand, thinking that he was about to breathe his last, but anxious to save the precious little life if possible, I very gently opened the bill and inserted a pellet of crushed spiders' eggs as large as a good-sized sweet pea, following it with a drop of water. He had been feigning, probably, as they are known to do; at any rate, in a minute he was as bright and lively as ever. His room for the night was a large insect cage of wire screen filled with convenient twigs and a large bowl of flowers. At five in the morning I fed him honey and young spiders, and again at six. At eight I had a lecture, the subject of which happened to be the taming of wild birds and attracting them about our homes. Removing all flowers from his cage to let his appetite sharpen for the two intervening hours, I set the cage on a table by my side on the lecture platform. I had taken pains to have two fresh nasturtiums in my buttonhole, one well loaded with honey, the other filled with the juices of crushed spiders and spiders' eggs. On reaching the topic of approaching birds in the right way, appealing to them along the lines of their tastes and appetites, appealing to the "right end" of a bird, I had only to open the door, give the familiar chirp, and the little charmer was probing the flowers. Then, as if anxious to show off, he again perched on my hand and went through his _post prandial_ toilet, thus giving the class an idea of bird-taming which no amount of books or anything I might have said could have possibly equaled. Many expressed themselves as never having seen so successful a "demonstration." Some said that I must be in league with higher powers, and it all must have been "providential." This may be true, for anything I know to the contrary. But it may have been simply improving the opportunities of a happy accident; and 'accidents,' we know, "never happen among the Hottentots." If flowers and honey can do it, at any rate, such accidents shall be more frequent about my home in the future.
A Peculiarity of a Caged Skylark
BY H. M. COLLINS
Do birds reverse the usual order of things, and from a serious and stolid youth develop mature playfulness? I have been led to ask myself this question by observing the extraordinary playfulness exhibited by a pet Skylark in extreme old age. Upon hearing the owner of the bird declare, "Dickie has reached his dotage, and, is now in a state of second childhood," it occurred to me that birds have no season of youthful frivolity such as Mother Nature accords to her other children. We are accustomed to associate the idea of youth with playfulness: we picture to ourselves the lamb frisking in the meadows, the frolicsome kitten playing upon the hearth, and we groan inwardly when we meditate upon the destructive propensities of our pet puppies, but we think of our young feathered friends as lying inert in their nests, gaping wide open their yellow-edged beaks incessantly for food, and apparently interested in nothing else.
A caged Skylark is a deplorable object generally, but the Lark of which I am about to write was a bird 'with a history,' and one, whose cage was not a prison but a home. While his native meadow (in Ireland) was being mowed, one of his wings was struck by the mowing-machine and the last joint terribly mutilated. One of the workmen picked up the poor little sufferer and gave him to a little boy whose father was something of a naturalist and a great lover of birds. Examination of the shattered wing revealed the fact that amputation of the last joint would be necessary if the bird's life was to be preserved. The operation was performed, and the little patient was placed in a very large cage carpeted with fresh, green sods. He was well supplied with food and water; the injured wing healed rapidly; he became surprisingly tame, and soon appeared to enjoy life thoroughly. Occasionally, he was permitted to enjoy his freedom in a large room, but after running about awhile, always seemed glad to return to his cage, the door of which was left open, so that he might go home when he pleased.
He was a beautiful singer, and used to stand in the long grasses and fresh clover of his sod, quiver the poor pinions that could never again soar skyward, and burst into the glorious carol with which he had been wont to salute the sunrise, when, high up among the fleecy clouds, he had appeared an almost invisible speck of personified melody to the enchanted listeners below.
As the years sped by, this much-indulged bird craved petting and attention to an abnormal degree, could be coaxed at any hour into singing, and formed the strange habit of trilling a low, sweet carol at ten o'clock every night, which his mistress called his "good-night song." When he had been caged for twelve or thirteen years he became as playful as a kitten, and was particularly fond of going through what his mistress called the "jungle tiger act," which consisted of crouching down out of sight in the grasses of his sod, and then springing suddenly forward to bite in a gentle way a finger poked between the wires of his cage. He never wearied of this game so long as he could induce a child or grown person to engage in it with him, and before he died, a year or so later, he developed a degree of playfulness that almost amounted to imbecility.
=For Teachers and Students=
'On the Ethics of Caging Birds.'
[As stated in our last issue, Mrs. Miller's paper on 'The Ethics of Caging Birds,' in Bird-Lore for June, brought us numerous letters, from which we have selected two, representing both sides of the question, for publication. As a further contribution to this discussion we publish in this number of Bird-Lore several papers describing experiences with caged birds.--Ed.]
To the Editor of Bird-Lore,
_Dear Sir_:--I have always been such an admirer of Mrs. Miller's writings that I confess to a feeling of great disappointment in her article concerning caged birds, which appeared in your June number of Bird-Lore. Will you allow me to comment on it briefly?
Mrs. Miller starts out with the position that while she disapproves with "all her heart" of caging wild birds, yet since "birds are caged we must deal with circumstances as we find them."
Undoubtedly Mrs. Miller is right in sounding a note of warning for those who keep birds as pets, by impressing upon them the care that should be given these utterly helpless little creatures. She says, "Not one bird in a thousand is properly cared for," and she might add to that the fact that thousands die every year of hunger, thirst, lack of care,--forlorn prisoners, utterly unable to help themselves. These facts being true, the inconsistency of her position is that she gives the slightest encouragement to the bird traffic which results in so much cruel suffering. She says that the discomfort they suffer in the bird stores is so great that she feels it to be "a work of charity to purchase them," yet she does not seem to see that every purchaser is in a measure accountable for this suffering. If no one would buy the birds, the traffic would soon cease.
But Mrs. Miller appears to be utterly hopeless as to the cure of this evil, for she says: "If a bird-lover should worry and fret himself to death he could not put an end to their captivity." It is exceedingly fortunate that there have been, and still are, and probably always will be, a few men and women in the world who believe with Emerson that "Nothing is impossible to the man who can will," and who, in spite of the perplexing outlook, go forward, and bring about the world's great reforms.