Part 9

AUDUBON DEPARTMENT 100 Editorial; Reports from Wisconsin and New Hampshire Societies; A Message From Madame Lehmann; Two New Audubon Societies; Birds and Farmers.

×*× _Bird-Lore is published at Englewood, New Jersey, where all manuscripts intended for publication, books, etc., for review, and exchanges should be sent._

PUBLISHERS' ANNOUNCEMENT

Bird-Lore for August will contain an article by Bradford Torrey; A paper on How to Photograph Wild Birds, by Richard Kearton, the most successful of bird photographers; A poem by Garrett Newkirk; An account of a Mississippi Swallow Roost, by Otto Widmann (whose paper on a visit to the birthplace of Audubon is necessarily postponed); a report of the American Society of Bird Restorers, by the organizer, Fletcher Osgood, and other interesting articles.

=Bird-Lore=

A BI-MONTHLY MAGAZINE

DEVOTED TO THE STUDY AND PROTECTION OF BIRDS

Official Organ of the Audubon Societies

======================================= Vol. 1 June, 1899 No. 3 =======================================

Gannets on Bonaventure

BY FRANK M. CHAPMAN

(_See Frontispiece_)

Gannets (_Sula bassana_) are known to nest in only three places in North America--Perroquet Island, the Bird Rocks, and Bonaventure Island, all in the Gulf of St. Lawrence. By far the largest colony is found on the last named island, where, on the ledges of the red sandstone cliffs, some three hundred feet in height, they are practically secure from molestation. Bonaventure Island itself, however, is the most accessible of the three localities mentioned, and may be easily reached in a small fishing boat from the neighboring village of Percé, where the famous Percé Rock, with its colony of Herring Gulls and Double-crested Cormorants, makes the region particularly interesting to the ornithologist.

The Gannet cliffs are on the east side of Bonaventure, and are exposed to the full force of the sea. To visit them satisfactorily, therefore, one should select a calm day, when one may closely approach the cliffs, and view with both safety and comfort the long, white rows, containing thousands of birds nesting on the shelves and ledges on the face of the cliff; a remarkable spectacle!

The unusually turbulent sea which prevailed during my visit to these cliffs, on July 11, 1898, prevented me from securing satisfactory pictures from a boat, but, landing on the west side of Bonaventure, I crossed the island (here about one and a half miles in width), and reached a position on the crest of the cliffs, from which the accompanying picture was made. About four hundred Gannets are shown nesting on this single ledge--one of many quite as densely populated. Preparations were made to secure a picture of these birds on the wing, but my best efforts to startle them into flight did not succeed in making a single bird leave its nest!

Clark's Crows and Oregon Jays on Mount Hood

BY FLORENCE A. MERRIAM

(_Concluded from page 48_)

Although the Nutcrackers and Jays were masters of the feast, they did not altogether monopolize it. Ground squirrels with golden brown heads and striped backs would look out at me from the rocks, and pretty little striped-nosed chipmunks would pick up choice morsels and climb nimbly back along the cliff with them. Juncos often dropped in, pecked indifferently at the crumbs, slipped off the tin cans they tried to perch on, and flew off. Two Lewis' Woodpeckers stopped one day and, flying down, clung awkwardly to the side of the cliff, as if vaguely wanting to join in the proceedings, but not knowing how, finally left. A single Steller's Jay hung around the outskirts in the same way, the first day I was there. He hopped about, looked this way and that, and pecked at the food perfunctorily, as if it was new to his palate and not quite to his mind, acting altogether as if he realized that something was going on he ought to be enjoying, though he really didn't see just where the fun came in. Unlike the Woodpeckers, however, he was determined to improve his opportunities, and cultivated his appetite so successfully that on the last day when I visited the dining-room he and a comrade were working away, apparently enjoying the viands as much as their neighbors.

But the Crows and Oregon Jays were the regular habitues of the place. When resting from his labors a solitary Crow would often perch on the tip of a bare spar on the crest of the cliff, apparently quite satisfied with his own society, but I never saw a Jay there, and one whom I did see separated from his band for a moment fairly made the welkin ring with shouts for his clan. Several Clark's Crows were often at the table with the Jays, but while I never saw a Crow disturb a Jay, a Crow would often fly with animation at a newcoming fellow Crow. This was a surprise to me, for on Mt. Shasta I had seen the Nutcrackers hunting in bands quite as the Jays did here. But on the wide lava slopes of Shasta there were, doubtless, grasshoppers enough for all the world, while here the feast was restricted to the foot of one cliff on the mountain--quite a different matter. When I spoke to Mrs. Langille about this difference in disposition, she acquiesced as if it were an old story to her, unhesitatingly denominating the Jays 'generous fellows,' and the Crows 'greedy' ones.

One Crow made a special exhibition of egoistic tendencies. He was engaged in hurriedly carrying off future breakfasts for himself when a party of brother Crows appeared. He had been working with absorption, flying back and forth to the table with eager haste, being gone less than half a minute at a time, but on the arrival of his friends dropped his work and devoted himself to driving them from the field. Not content with keeping them from the table, he flew at them with a strange note of ominous warning when they sat quietly in the tree-tops. It seemed as if he were nervous lest they discover what he had been storing among the branches. When he had fairly routed the enemy he apparently acted on his fear of discovery, for, instead of placing his supplies near at hand as before, he flew out of sight with them. As before, he worked with nervous haste. As I looked down on the tree-tops from above it was impossible to see where he put all the food, but several times when he flew up in sight he seemed to be sticking small bits between the needles of the pines. As the bunches of needles are compact and stiff in this white-barked pine (_Pinus albicaulis_), this might be a safe temporary cache, but the winter gales that make it necessary to hold down the Inn with huge cables would presumably leave little biscuit between the needles of a pine.

The question is, do these birds--and others which hoard--really use their stores? The testimony of all who are in the field in winter is needed to clear up the matter. The first point to be determined is whether the individual birds winter where they store. The Nutcrackers, Mr. Langille informed me, do remain at the high altitudes all the year. As he said, it is stormy indeed when they cannot be seen sailing across the cañons or perched on the topmost branches of the trees, screaming and calling in their harsh way, always restless and seeming to resent any intrusion of man, beast, or fowl. On the other hand, he said that the Jays seldom remain at the high altitudes during the winter months, usually descending to lower elevations, where they flit about in flocks of from six to twenty, sounding their plaintive varied notes and whistles at all times.

Nevertheless, the storing of the Crows at this altitude was certainly much less systematic than that of the Jays. The Jays' movements were easy to follow, for they were concerted and regular. The Inn was on a ridge between two cañons, and commanded the birds' pathway. A band would come up from under the cliff at the top of the western cañon, cross over the ridge, and drop down into the eastern cañon, where they would fly over the tops of the firs till they disappeared from sight. They would be gone some little time, and then return empty-handed to repeat the performance.

The Jays talked a good deal in going back and forth, and their notes were pleasantly varied. One call was remarkably like the chirp of a Robin. Another of the commonest was a weak and rather complaining cry, repeated several times; and a sharply contrasting one was a pure, clear whistle of one note followed by a three-syllabled call, something like _ka-wé-ah_. The regular rallying cry was still different, a loud and striking two-syllabled _ka-wheé_. The notes of Clark's Crow often suggested the rattling of the Red-headed Woodpecker. The bird had a variety of _kerring_, throaty notes, and when disturbed, as at the unexpected sight of me at its dining-room, gave a loud, warning _quarr_. Besides these Woodpecker-like calls, it had a squawking cry similar to that of Steller's Jay.

The voices of the birds were often heard from the house as they got water from the hydrant in front of the Inn, the Jays frequently stopping on the way back from their cañon storehouse. Sometimes three Jays would suddenly appear overhead, drop noiselessly to the pool under the hydrant, and squatting close together fill their bills and then raise their heads to swallow. Though the Jays usually went to the pool for water, they would sometimes light on the hydrant and, leaning over, drink from the faucet, which Mrs. Langille always left dripping for their benefit. The Clark's Crows, so far as I noticed, always drank right from the faucet.

It was hard to get photographs of the birds at the hydrant, as they stopped only in passing, but as it was impossible to take them under the cliff on account of the poor light, I determined to bait them. Finding a number of the Nutcrackers in front of the kitchen window, I asked the Chinaman for some meat for them, holding up my Kodak to explain that I wanted to take the birds' pictures. To my surprise, the man promptly and decidedly shook his head! I didn't know what to make of such apparent rudeness at first, but it finally dawned on me that he could not understand English and, not being an ornithologist, from past experience with tourist cameras concluded that I wanted _his_ picture! Accordingly, nothing daunted, I appealed to Mrs. Langille, and when she gave me a plate of suet, returned to take the Crows. They flew at my approach, but quickly settled back and fairly fell on the meat I put in the road for them. I got a snap of one with a big mouthful. After taking all the Nutcrackers I wanted, I went back to the hydrant to wait for the Jays, but the Crows followed and one fellow fairly gorged himself on the fat. He gulped it down so fast I had to drive him off in order to have either meat or films left for the Jays. It was hard to persuade him that I wanted him to leave. He had had no experience of such inhospitality. Mild shooing did no good. I actually had to throw small stones at him before he would take the hint! When he finally started to go, I got his picture as he turned and looked regretfully over his shoulder at the Jay he was leaving in possession of the field.

The Jays were even more fearless than the Crows. Several of them would often be on the ground at once, but they ate so fast and flew back and forth so rapidly that it was hard to focus on them quickly enough to get their most interesting poses. I put a brown paper behind or under the pan for a lighter background, and at first the birds hopped nervously when it moved, but they soon got used to it, and ate on it and on the pan, as it happened. And how they did stuff! They were so absorbed that, although I sat within four feet of the pan, they sometimes came too near for me to focus. They paid so little heed to my presence I have no doubt they would have eaten from my hand had I not been engaged in keeping them at a proper distance. When the raw meat was gone Mrs. Langille gave me a supply of cooked fat, and it was astonishing to see how much of the greasy stuff they could swallow. I caught one just as he was about to fly off with a billful of it. The fat seemed to make them thirsty; they had to go to the hydrant to wash it down with cold water.

Meat Hawk, the name the mountaineers have for them, is certainly appropriate. They are on the lookout for meat wherever it is to be found, be it kitchen door or forest. Their appetite for game is truly remarkable. Mr. Langille told me he might go through the woods all day without seeing a single Jay, but if he killed a deer and the smell of blood filled the air, in a few moments the birds would be about, calling and whistling; and, emboldened by the prospect of a feast, they would fly down and perch upon the carcass within reach of his hand, sometimes before the deer was entirely skinned.

On Mount Shasta, although the Nutcrackers came about camp, they showed no desire for camp food, and on Hood Mr. Langille informed me that the Crows tamed this year were the first they had ever succeeded in coaxing about. After I left the mountain they became still more familiar, and, I am told, would gather in the trees at daybreak and call until the family went out to feed them.

The Masquerading Chickadee[E]

BY EDITH M. THOMAS

[Footnote E: "March 1, 1856.--I hear several times the fine drawn _Phe-be_ note of the Chickadee, which I heard only once during the winter."--"Early Spring in Massachusetts."--Thoreau.]

I came to the woods in the dead of the year, I saw the wing'd sprite thro' the green-brier peeping: "Darling of Winter, you've nothing to fear, Though the branches are bare and the cold earth is sleeping!"

With a _dee, dee, dee!_ the sprite seemed to say, "I'm friends with the Maytime as well as December, And I'll meet you here on a fair-weather day; Here, in the green-brier thicket,--remember!"

* * * * *

I came to the woods in the spring of the year, And I followed a voice that was most entreating: _Phebe! Phebe!_ (and yet more near), _Phebe! Phebe!_ it kept repeating!

I gave up the search, when, not far away, I saw the wing'd sprite thro' the green-brier peeping, With a _Phebe! Phebe!_ that seemed to say, "I told you so! and my promise I'm keeping."

"You'll know me again, when you meet me here, Whether you come in December or Maytime: I've a _dee, dee, dee!_ for the Winter's ear, And a _Phebe! Phebe!_ for Spring and Playtime!"

Matins

BY ROSA MEYERS MUMMA

As sable night fades into soft rose tint, Through leafy aisles slow filters daylight's glint; From green tree arch is faintly heard the call Which summons quickly feathered choir all To Nature's vast cathedral, where in song Unite the worshippers, a feathered throng. What harmonies pour forth from each bird throat! A morning prayer ascends with each clear note.

Home-Life in a Chimney

BY MARY F. DAY

Near Boonton, N. J., it was my good fortune last summer to have the exceptional opportunity of watching closely the rearing of a family of Chimney Swifts. The nest was built opposite and slightly above an opening in the chimney designed for the insertion of a stovepipe. The opening was about two feet from the floor of a second-story room in the house where I spent the summer.

When discovered, the nest was only partially completed, so it was necessary to exercise care, lest the birds become alarmed and choose a more secluded spot. To guard against disturbance to them, a black cloth was hung over the opening in such a way that it could be carefully and noiselessly lifted during periods of observation. Although the room was used as a bedchamber throughout the summer, the Swifts never seemed to be annoyed by the close proximity of their human neighbors. They were of a trustful disposition, and soon became accustomed to being watched. Occasionally, when I looked in upon them at the beginning of our acquaintance, they would spread their long, beautifully formed wings and lift them gracefully above the back, as if intending to fly, but usually, upon second consideration, would conclude it was unnecessary.

It was the 21st of May when I first peeped in upon the little bracket against the chimney wall that became the stage for the enactment of scenes filled with absorbing interest to me in the weeks that followed. It was not placed in an angle, but against the north side of the flue, beneath a slight projection formed by an accumulation of soot.

In a week one egg was apparent, but there may have been others, for the little builders had been adding one twig after another to the front edge of the nest, so that it had become impossible to see the bottom. Two more days passed, after which it could be seen that there were at least two eggs, and yet the structure continued to be enlarged.

June 5 marked the beginning of incubation. In mid-afternoon of this day I saw the sitting bird had flown, and, going out-of-doors to study birds, my attention was attracted to a Swift flying among the branches of the locust trees near by. This was an unusual sight to me, and, recalling that I had read that Swifts never alight in trees, I watched eagerly to see what it might mean. Soon I saw that the bird was snatching at little dry twigs. She flew round and round, and presently was gone. Suspecting that it was my little friend, I ran quickly upstairs, and sure enough, there sat my bird upon the nest, with a twig in her mouth, panting as if tired by extra exertion. Resting a moment, she proceeded to apply the salivary glue and adjust the twig, and then settled again to the task of sitting.

After a few days there came a cold storm, and it was believed that the little brooder proved unfaithful to her duties, for late one evening and early the following morning she was seen huddled with others of her kind beneath the nest. Great were my fears that no birds would ever come from these chilled eggs, but time made it clear that the tiny creature knew what she was doing. This was the sole act of parental neglect that was apparent during all the weeks required to rear the family. Under date of June 17, I noted that the eggs were constantly protected. At whatever time of day I looked I saw a sitting bird.

June 24 dawned fair and warm. As was my custom, I called to say "good morning" into the chimney before going down to breakfast, when I found that there was excitement in the little home. A faint peep reached my ear, which caused the mother anxious restlessness each time it was repeated. From half-past eight until ten o'clock that morning I sat at my post of observation, during which time it appeared that two or three more young were hatched, for there was much peeping on the part of the little ones and much fidgeting about by the adults. Two shells, or parts of shells, were tossed from the nest. Occasionally the parents exchanged places, one brooding the infants while the other went out into the air. Even at the tender age that must be reckoned by minutes, these young birds were fed, seemingly, by regurgitation.

During the progress of my study I found that one of the pair, which from manners and appearance I judged to be the female, had lost a tail feather, and this one I affectionately dubbed "Swiftie." She appeared worn out with anxiety added to the confinement of a long period of incubation, and embraced every opportunity to rest, but seasons of sleep were of short duration, for it seemed that the body of the brooding bird was lifted each time a movement was felt beneath. The mate, with his sleek coat, bright eyes and calm demeanor, formed a decided contrast to the ragged, unkempt appearance of the female.

Even four days showed perceptible growth in the swiftlings. They were not allowed to remain uncovered, a wise precaution, for their bodies were perfectly naked. At this age the instinct of cleanliness began to assert itself. The weak, awkward little creatures would struggle backward from beneath the brooder, up to the edge of the nest and deposit over it that which, remaining within, would have made their home uninhabitable.

From this time forth a third Swift was seen to enter into the care of the nestlings, taking its turn at brooding and feeding. Was this a nurse-maid employed to relieve the overburdened mother, or a kind and helpful friend or neighbor, or the younger and less care-taking of two wives? Who can tell?

It was not until the sixth day after hatching that I knew to a certainty how many young birds there were. Then, to my surprise, I found there were five. They had grown to be very clamorous for food. Two, at most three (later but one), were served at one feeding, and the process was after this manner: "Swiftie" would drop into the chimney and alight below the nest, her throat bulging with the fullness of captured insects. The little ones that were hungry were alert, for all had learned that a rumbling noise in the chimney, followed by a sound of "chitter, chitter, chitter," meant something to eat. After resting a moment, the mother would scramble up over the nest, and, with closed eyes, feel about until she came in contact with an open mouth, whereupon she would place her beak far down the throat, deposit a portion of food, then seek another yawning cavity. No system appeared to be observed in the matter of feeding. The hungriest youngsters made the greatest effort to reach the source of supply.

July 1 feathers began to appear. They grew rapidly, especially those of wings and tail, and in a week the bodies were about covered. With feathers came employment, for they must often be dressed, though from a habit of yawning frequently, common to the family, one might be led to believe that time hung heavily on their claws.

The nestlings were two weeks old before the eyes began to open, and nearly three before they were much used. But when they were fully open, and the feathers had grown out and were fast becoming sooty instead of black, how winning these young birds appeared!

The time had now come to take up exercises preparatory to flying. The young aspirants would stand in the nest and for a time vibrate the wings rapidly, so rapidly that the identity of wing was lost. Two first ventured from home when nineteen days old, clinging to the wall for a short time a few inches from the nest.

One afternoon about this time there came a severe and prolonged shower. The rain beat into the chimney, reaching down to the nest. What, now did I see? Besides the five grown-up swiftlings, the three adults, packed in and upon the nest, the rain dripping from those which were exposed. I mention this incident to give an idea of the adhesiveness of the glue used in the construction of Swifts' nests.

July 20 I made the following note: "Swiftlings no longer make use of the nest, but dispose themselves in various parts of the chimney, sometimes in a cluster, sometimes in twos or threes, and sometimes separately. They take flying exercises up and down the chimney, but I believe have not yet left it." The next morning I was forced to conclude that three had taken flight into the great outside world, for upon looking the chimney over thoroughly with the aid of a small mirror, I could find but two birds.