Part 28

“Here is a merry bird that you cannot miss seeing or fail to name if you have eyes and ears. Olive on head and back, this bird certainly has a yellow throat, also much yellow on tail, wings, and underparts, but if I had the naming of it I should call him the ‘Yellow, Black-masked Warbler,’ for he wears a narrow mask of black across his face, through which his keen eyes peer provokingly as he flits ahead calling for you to follow, ‘Follow me—follow me—follow!’ When you see the bird, of two points you may be sure at once; it is yellow, and it wears a black mask, but whether it is yellowest on back, throat, or breast will require a second look.

“This bird is here about the garden and lane from May to September, and last June we found its long, bulky nest, partly covered like an Indian cradle, in the bushes between the garden and orchard, but it usually is so clever at going into the bushes and then darting along close to the ground to its nest, that we had known of this nest for several days before we discovered that it belonged to Black Mask, for his wife, who kept the nearest to the nest, wears no mask, and we thought her some other kind of Warbler.

THE MARYLAND YELLOWTHROAT

While May bedecks the naked trees With tassels and embroideries, And many blue-eyed violets beam Along the edges of the stream,

I hear a voice that seems to say, Now near at hand, now far away, “Witchery-witchery-witchery!”

* * * * * *

An incantation so serene, So innocent, befits the scene; There’s magic in that small bird’s note. See! there he flits—the Yellowthroat; A living sunbeam, tipped with wings, A spark of light that shines and sings, “Witchery-witchery-witchery!”

—Henry van Dyke, in _The Builders and Other Poems_.

“A whistle comes out of the bushes that line the wood lane perhaps when you are gathering the pink Wild Azalea. If you have a dog with you, he will get up and sniff about. The whistle is repeated, and you yourself think it is one of your companions who has rounded the turn calling you. No; then it is merely a Catbird mocking half a dozen other songsters and then jeering at them.

“By mere chance, glancing at a tree close above, you see a bird of good size with brilliant yellow throat, breast, and wing-linings, and a strong curved beak that appears almost hooked. Perching there is a Yellow-breasted Chat. He it is who is doing the mocking and jeering, but throws his voice in such a way that it seems to come from the opposite bushes. It is this power that gives him the name of ‘Ventriloquist.’ Being observed, he slips quickly out of sight, and then you notice the olive-green colour on his back. He has a song of his own as well as the power of imitating others and in the nesting season floats out upon the air, with spread wings and legs trailing behind, in a wild ecstasy of singing, looking to us humans very foolish, but is doubtless very fascinating to his mate on her nest hidden amid briers and bushes and thoroughly protected by vines.

_Singers in Costume_

“Among the birds many of the best vocalists are choir singers, as it were. We hear their voices first, and from hearing them desire to know and name the singers. The Thrushes belong to the first group. Others there are who come on the stage in brilliant costume; we see them first, then desire to hear them sing, and afterward remember them as pleasing both to eye and ear. These are the gentlemen of the Opera, and four of them made the garden and orchard their music-hall last summer and I do not doubt will do so again. In fact the Goldfinches have never left, but a flock in sober winter suits have fed at the lunch-counter on the sunflower heads and fluttered over the weed seeds in the fields all winter.

“The _Baltimore Oriole_ is the first of the quartet to settle down to family life late in May. The _Rose-breast_ follows him closely. But the _Tanager_ waits for the heavy leafage of June to cover his brilliant colours while, for some reason not yet understood, the _American Goldfinch_ keeps his bachelor freedom longer than any bird except the Cedar Waxwing. And though he wears his handsome yellow wedding-clothes from late April, he waits until he has feasted well on dandelion-down and the best grass seeds before he ceases to rove and takes to a bush, high maple, or other tree, to locate his soft nest made of moss and grasses and lined with thistle-down.

THE BALTIMORE ORIOLE

How falls it, Oriole, thou hast come to fly In tropic splendour through our northern sky?

At some glad moment was it Nature’s choice To dower a scrap of sunset with a voice?

Or did an orange tulip flaked with black, In some forgotten ages back,

Yearning toward Heaven until its wish was heard, Desire unspeakably to be a bird?

—Edgar Fawcett.

“The Baltimore Oriole should be first mentioned, for his voice is that of the bugler that heralds actual spring, the long-expected, long-delayed mellow period, distinct from the almanac spring, that, when it once comes to us of the middle and north country, is quickly absorbed by the ardour of summer herself. Also is this Oriole the gloriously illuminated initial letter wrought in ruddy gold and black pigments heading the chapter that records the season; and when we see him high in a tree against a light tracery of fresh foliage, we know in very truth that not only is winter over, that the treacherous snow-squalls of April are past, but that May is working day and night to complete the task allotted.

“For as the Indian waited for the blooming of the dogwood, _Cornus florida_, before planting his maize, so does the prudent gardener wait for the first call of the Oriole before she trusts her cellar-wintered geraniums and lemon balms once more to the care of Mother Earth.

“This Oriole has history blended with his name; for it is said that George Calvert, the first Lord Baltimore, tired and discouraged by many of the troubles of his Newfoundland colony, in visiting the Virginia settlement in 1628, explored the waters of the Chesapeake, where he found the shores and woods alive with birds, and conspicuous among them, vast flocks of Orioles. These so pleased him that he took their colours for his own and they ever afterward bore his name—a fair exchange.

“The _Baltimore Oriole_ comes of a party-coloured American family—_Icteridæ_—that to the eye of the uninitiated at least would appear to be a hybrid clan drawn from all quarters of the bird world. Yet it is typically American, even in this variety; for what other race would have the temerity to harbour the Bobolink, Orchard and Baltimore Orioles, Red-wing, Meadowlark, various Grackles, together with the vagrant Cowbird, in the branches of the same family tree?

“One of the many welcome facts concerning the Oriole is the ease with which he is identified; and I say _he_ advisedly, for his more industrious half, who is the expert weaver of the pair, is much the more sombre of hue. In early May, or even as late as the middle of the month in backward seasons, you will hear a half-militant, half-complaining note from the high tree branches. As you go out to find its origin, it will be repeated, and then a flash of flame and black will shoot across the range of vision toward another tree, and the bird, chiding and complaining, begins a minute search along the smaller twigs for insects. This is the Oriole, _Icterus galbula_, as he first appears in full spring array,—his head, throat, and top of back and wings black, except a few margins and quills that are white edged. The breast and underparts, lower part of back, and lesser wing-coverts are orange flame, while his tail is partly black and partly orange.

“Two other tree-top birds that arrive at about the same time, one to remain and one to pass on, wear somewhat the same combination of red and black,—the Redstart and the Blackburnian Warbler. But, besides being much smaller birds, they both belong to the pretty tribe of Warblers that, with a few notable exceptions, such as the Chat and Water-thrushes, should be more properly called ‘lispers’ and not be confused with the clear-toned Oriole.

“Once the female Oriole arrives, usually several days after the male, his complaining call, ‘Will you? Will you really, truly?’ gradually lessens: and after a few weeks, when nest-building begins, it quite disappears, or rather, is appropriated by the songless female, who, while she weaves the nest, is encouraged by the clarion song of her mate. The plumage of the female is brown and gray blended with orange above, the head, back, and throat being mottled with black, while the underparts are a dull orange, with little of the flaming tints of the male.

“Though the Oriole exposes himself more freely to view than most of our highly coloured birds and in fact seems to regard his gift of beauty anything but seriously, he takes no chances, however, in the locating of his nest, which is not only from twenty feet above the ground upward, but is suspended from a forked branch that is at once tough yet so slender that no marauding cat would dare venture to it. This pensile nest is diligently woven of grasses, twine, vegetable fibres, horsehair, bits of worsted, or anything manageable and varies much in size and shape, as if the matter of individual taste entered somewhat into the matter. It has been fairly well proven that location enters largely into this matter, and that nests in wild regions, where birds of prey, etc., abound, are smaller at the top and have a more decided neck than those in the trees of home lawns and orchard. Of the many nests that I have found and handled or else observed closely with a glass, the majority have been quite open at the top like the one pictured, and the only one with a narrow and funnel-like opening came from a wayside elm on the edge of a dense wood.

“The female seems to be weaver-in-chief, using both claw and bill, though I have seen the male carry her material. It is asserted that Orioles will weave gayly coloured worsteds into their nests. This I very much doubt, or if they do, I believe it is for lack of something more suitable. I have repeatedly fastened varicoloured bunches of soft linen twine, carpet-thread, flosses, and the like under the bark of trees frequented by Orioles, and with one exception, it has been the more sombre tints that were selected, though I am told that nests are found made of very bright colours.

“In the exceptional case a long thread of scarlet linen floss was taken and woven into the nest for about half its length, the remainder hanging down; but on resuming my watch the next day, I found that the weaver had left the half-finished task and crossed the lawn to another tree. Whether it was owing to the presence of red squirrels close by, or that the red thread had been a subject for domestic criticism and dissension, we may not know.

“Be this as it may, in spite of the bright hues of the parent birds and the hanging shape of the nest that is never concealed by a branch upon which it is saddled, like the home of so many birds, an Oriole’s nest is exceedingly difficult to locate unless one has noticed the trips to and fro in the building process; but once the half-dozen white, darkly etched and spotted eggs it contains hatch out, the vociferous youngsters at once call attention to the spot and make their whereabouts known, in spite of sky cradle and carefully adjusted leaf umbrellas.

“If their parents bring them food, they squeal (yes, that is the only word for it); if they are left alone, they do likewise. Their baby voices can be heard above the wind, and it is only either at night or during a heavy shower, when a parent would naturally be supposed to be upon the nest, that they are silent.

“As an adult, the Oriole lives on rather mixed diet and has a great love of honey; but of course as a parent he is, with his sharp beak, a great provider of animal food for his home, and to his credit must be placed a vast number of injurious tree-top insects that escape the notice of less agile birds.

“Complaints are frequently heard of his propensity for opening pods and eating young peas, piercing the throats of trumpet-shaped flowers for the honey, and in the autumn, before the southward migration, siphoning grape and plum juice by means of this same slender, pointed bill.

“Personally, I have never lost peas through his appetite for green vegetables, though I have had the entire floral output of an old trumpet-vine riddled bud and blossom; and I have often stood and scolded them from under the boughs of a Spitzenburgh apple tree, amid the blossoms of which they were rummaging,—perhaps for insects, but also scattering the rosy blossoms right and left with torn and bruised petals. Powell, in _The Independent_, writes feelingly of this trait of the Oriole, thus:—

“‘An Oriole is like a golden shuttle in the foliage of the trees, but he is the incarnation of mischief. That is just the word for it. If there is anything possible to be destroyed, the Oriole likes to tear it up.

“‘He wastes a lot of string in building his nest. He is pulling off apple blossoms now, possibly eating a few petals. By and by he will pick holes in bushels of grapes, and in plum season he will let the wasps and hornets into the heart of every Golden Abundance plum on your favourite tree. . . . Yet the saucy scamp is so beautiful that he is tolerated—and he does kill an enormous lot of insects. There is a swinging nest just over there above the blackberry bushes. It is wonderfully woven and is a cradle as well as a house. I should like to have been brought up in such a homestead.’

“It seems as if the Oriole must be a descendant of one of the brilliant birds that inhabited North America in by-gone days of tropic heat and that has stayed on from a matter of hereditary association; for in the nesting season it is to be found from Florida and Texas up to New Brunswick and the Saskatchewan country and westward to the Rockies, beyond which this type is replaced by Bullock’s Oriole, of much similar colouring save that it has more orange on the sides of the head, and the white wing-patch is larger.

“But however much the Baltimore Oriole loves his native land, the climate and the exigencies of travel make his stay in it brief; for he does not appear until there is some protection of foliage and he starts southward toward his winter home in Central and South America often before a single leaf has fallen.

THE BALTIMORE ORIOLE

O Golden Robin! pipe again That happy, hopeful, cheering strain!

A prisoner in my chamber, I See neither grass, nor bough, nor sky; Yet to my mind thy warblings bring, In troops, all images of spring; And every sense is satisfied But what thy magic has supplied. As by enchantment, now I see On every bush and forest tree The tender, downy leaf appear.— The loveliest robe they wear.

The tulip and the hyacinth grace The garden bed; each grassy place With dandelions glowing bright, Or king-cups, childhood’s pure delight, Invite the passer-by to tread Upon the soft, elastic bed, And pluck again the simple flowers Which charmed so oft his younger hours. The apple orchards all in bloom— I seem to smell their rare perfume. And thou, gay whistler! to whose song These powers of magic art belong, On top of lofty elm I see Thy black and orange livery; Forgive that word! a freeman bold, Of choice thou wearest jet and gold, And no man’s livery dost bear, Thou flying tulip! free as air!

Come, Golden Robin! once again That magic, joy-inspiring strain!

—Thomas Hill.

“Of all our North American birds, the Tanager is the most gorgeous and suggestive of the tropics. I do not understand how any one can fail to name him. He is unlike any other. Entire body rich scarlet, wings and tail black; that is all that there is to remember about him in spring dress. In autumn he moults to a greenish yellow like his mate, but still keeps his black wings and tail.

“This bird is commonly thought to be rare, but that is because he loves groves of oaks, chestnuts, and beeches, and Nature has taught him to keep in high deep shade, that his colour, far richer than the Cardinals, may not make him a target for enemies, both feathered and human. But in the migrations he is often to be seen. Half a dozen were feeding at one time in the garden and about the lunch-counter this spring, and in May, whenever I drove about or went to Fair Meadows village, some one was sure to either ask me the name of the beautiful red birds that they had seen about the yard, or, if they knew the bird, tell how plentiful Tanagers had been this year.

“Protection has certainly helped this bird, and in some places it is said to be increasing; and as it is distinctly a bird of high trees, where its nest of loosely built sticks is placed, it is not so much affected by the modern plague of cats as either Robin, Song Sparrow, or the Thrushes. ‘The song resembles somewhat that of the Robin, but is shorter and less varied, with a little apparent hoarseness or harshness in the tone. Chi-chi-chi-char-ee, char-ee-chi represents it fairly well.’ It also has a sharp ‘Chip-churr!’ alarm note.

“The Robin, Grosbeak, and Tanager all have certain notes in common, so that when they all sing at once, it is often difficult to distinguish the individual songs.

“The Tanager is the guardian of the forest trees and their insect pests. As a caterpillar hunter, it is said ‘he has but few superiors.’ He finds the leaf-rolling caterpillar in its snug retreat and destroys myriads of weevils, click-beetles, and crane-flies. The Tanager also visits orchards, and in early spring, during the migrations, he braves danger and feeds in the furrows of ploughed land in the same way as the Grackles and Robins.

“The Tanagers are unique little specimens when they first leave the nest, for the male birds undergo as many changes of colour as Harlequin in the pantomime. After the down of nestlings, they wear the dull colour of the mother, and before they put on the full spring plumage, they go through a stage of patchwork such as you see in this picture in my portfolio. Then after being bright red all summer, they again go through the patchwork state before leaving in fall.

“The coming of cold weather evidently warns this Tanager to go, for being provided with a dull travelling cloak, he need no more fear being seen in the leafless trees than the Thrushes or Sparrows.

“_Thistle-bird_, _Lettuce-bird_, and _Yellowbird_ are all names given to this friendly little Sparrow of the stout bill, black cap, tail, wings, and bright gamboge-yellow plumage, who lives with us all the year and is almost always seen in flocks. In spring we find these birds and their more sober wives feeding on dandelion seeds. In early summer they glean grass seeds in the hayfields. In late summer and early autumn they flutter about the seeding thistle in company with the rich red butterflies, and after this, the male and female, garbed alike, then live wherever the wild composite flowers like asters, sunflowers, or garden marigolds and zinnias have gone to seed and in the great waste fields of weeds.

“At all times its flight is noticeable for its dip, followed by an upward jerk, and as they fly, they call ‘per-chic-o-ree-per-chic-o-ree’ (Chapman) in a jolly, gleeful manner.

“In May, June, and July they sing in a varied and canary-like manner from tree-tops and as they swing on stalks of grass, having quite powerful voices for their size, which is under five inches.

“A lover and close observer of these Goldfinches has written the summer life of a pair of these birds in so interesting a fashion that I will read it to you. Either the pair that she describes were very late in nesting, or it was their second brood.

Order—Passeres Family—Fringillidæ Genus—Astragalinus Species—Tristis

A GOLDFINCH IDYL

Do you know of any far-away pasture where, in blueberry time, Sparrows play hide-and-seek in the bushes, and Finches are like little golden balls tossed on the breeze? It was in such a field that my Goldfinch found the thistle-down for her soft couch—_her_ couch, observe, for it was the dull mate in greenish olive that made the bed.

I was there when the maple twig was chosen for the nest—as good luck would have it—close by our cottage door and in plain sight from my window. The choice was announced by a shower of golden notes from the male bird and a responsive twitter from his mate. She began building at once, quickly outlining the nest with grasses and bark. Her approach was always heralded by a burst of song from her mate, who hovered near while she deftly wove the pretty fabric and then flew away with him to the base of supply.

It was August 2 when the nest began. I quote from my note-book:—

“August 3. I observed the work closely for an hour. The working partner made eighteen trips, the first eleven in twenty-two minutes, grass and thistle-down being brought; the last nine trips only down, more time being taken to weave it into the walls. The male warbled near by and twice flew into the tree and cheered his industrious mate with song.

“August 5. The home growing. The female tarries much longer at the nest, fashioning the lining.

“August 6. Both birds sing while flying to and from the nest.

“August 7. Nest completed. The mother bird has a little ‘song of the nest’—a very happy song. Think an egg was laid to-day.

“August 11. The male Goldfinch feeds his mate on the nest. Flies to her with a jubilant twitter, his mouth full of seeds. She eagerly takes from twelve to twenty morsels. They always meet and part with song. Once the brooding mate grew impatient, flew to the next tree to meet her provider, took eight or ten morsels, then flew with him to the nest and took twelve more. A generous commissary!

“August 17. Breakfast on the nest; twenty-three morsels from one mouthful. How is it possible for song to escape from that bill before the unloading? Yet it never fails.”

Here the record comes to an untimely stop, the reporter being suddenly called home. But the following year Nature’s serial opened at the same leaf.

Toward the last of July, a steady increase in Goldfinch music, and a subtle change in its meaning marked the approach of nesting time. Again I quote from my journal:—

“August 8. My careful search was rewarded by the discovery of a Goldfinch’s nest, barely outlined, in the rock maple near the former site, but on the road side of the tree. That my bird friends had returned to the old treestead I could not doubt, as they bore my scrutiny with unconcern. In six days the nest was completed. The builder flew to the brook and drank with her mate, but rarely stayed away long enough for food supply; that was carried to her and received on the nest.

“August 18. An episode: a rival male flew to the home tree with the male Goldfinch, both singing delightfully and circling about the nest. The mate, much excited, several times flew from the nest and joined in the discussion. Two bouts between the males ended in the discomfiture of number two and the return of my Goldfinch with a victor’s song.

“August 20. The course of true love now ran smooth, and Goldfinch, sure of his intrenched affection, sang less volubly. The female, delicately sensitive of ear, apparently recognizes the voice of her mate and never fails to respond. Other Goldfinches flew by in song, calling and singing, but only one appealed to her.

“August 25 was a red-letter day in Goldfinch annals; then, and only then, I saw the male on the nest fed by his mate. The male then shares incubation? He certainly gave it a trial, but so far as my observation goes, found it too confining to be repeated.