Part 17

The young are very timid creatures and keep close to their parents. Considerable solicitude is shown by the latter for their well-being. Their helpless infancy, so to speak, is watched over with all the care that a human mother bestows upon her offspring, and when their lives are endangered recourse is had to many a _ruse_ to deceive their enemies and bring them into places of security. When severely pressed by foes, the mother, by a peculiar alarm, warns them of the state of things, and while they are scattering in different directions seeks to attract attention to herself in many a well-feigned artifice. In her anxiety for their safety, she has even been observed to seize between her two feet a youngling and fly with it away--a behavior whose purpose seemed to be the diversion of the enemy from the rest of the brood, thus giving them a chance to flee from impending peril to places of security in the surrounding verdure. After all danger has disappeared, she summons them together again by a familiar call, and doubtless relates to them the story of her adventures and the dangers from which they were saved. Worms, animalcula, ants and other soft-bodied insects, which the parents assist them in procuring from the soft earth, and from beneath the grass and dead leaves that abound in the places they frequent, constitute their food. Later on they are able to obtain their subsistence, with all the address of older birds, by thrusting their bills into the soil and in such other places as would be likely to contain the objects desired. Their tongues, covered with a viscid saliva, adhere to the food, and when drawn into the mouth carry it with them without danger of being lost. All who have made these birds a study have often discerned holes made in the soft mud by their bills. The presence of these “borings,” as they are called, is always an indication that game is not far distant, which a careful exploration of the locality soon verifies. The young, when matured, continue to occupy the same haunts with their parents, and, unless brought to an untimely death by the merciless gun of the hunter, repair to the warm, sunny, smiling South with the return of frost. In the Middle States--and the same is doubtless true of other sections of our great country--there is never more than a single brood raised, although the early breeding of the species would certainly afford time for a second hatching before the close of the season. Less pyriform are the eggs of the Woodcock than waders’ mostly are, being, in some instances, almost ovoidal. Their ground-color varies from a light clay to one of buffy-brown, and the markings occur in the form of fine spots and blotches of chocolate-brown, interspersed with others of obscure lilac, more or less thickly scattered over the surface of the egg, their size and intensity of color bearing, in general, a direct correspondence with the depth of the background. Remarkable variations of size exist throughout the species’ range, some being short and broad, while others are long and narrow. A set of three from Pennsylvania, which the writer carefully measured, showed an average measurement of 1.54 by 1.21 inches.

So familiar a bird as the Woodcock, which is sometimes termed the Bog-sucker or Wood-snipe, hardly needs description. He has a thick, heavily-set body, short and thick neck, and large head, bill and eyes, and ears beneath the visual organs. His wings are short and rounded, the first three primaries being very narrow and shorter than the fourth, and the fourth and fifth the largest. The tarsi are about one and one-fourth inches long and rather stout, the tibiæ feathered to the joints, and the toes long and slender, and without marginal membranes or basal webs. More than two and a half inches in length is the bill, straight, tapering, and stout at base, with ridge at base of maxilla high, and the upper mandible a little larger than the lower, and knobbed at the end. Three long grooves, one on ridge above, and the others on each side of maxilla, complete the structural details of the bill. The sexes are alike, the female being larger than the male. Adult specimens vary from ten to twelve inches in length, and have an expanse of wings of from fifteen to eighteen inches, and a weight ranging from four to nine ounces. The eyes are brown, legs and bill of the dried skin pale-brownish, upper parts black, gray, russet and brown, chin whitish, and rest of under parts different shades of brownish-red.

So exquisitely sensible is the extremity of the bill, as in the snipe, that these birds are enabled to collect their food by the mere touch, without using their eyes, which are set at such a distance and elevation in the back part of the head as to give them an aspect of stupidity. The eyes being situated high up and far back is a wise provision of nature, as, by this peculiarity, they escape many of their enemies, their field of vision being greatly augmented by such an arrangement. Obtaining their sustenance, as they largely do, by probing with their bills, so amply endowed with nerves, they have comparatively little use for their eyes, unless to keep watch for their numerous foes.

Though well known to the sportsman, yet by the casual observer this bird is frequently confounded with the Wilson’s snipe. But the error can readily be avoided, if it is borne in mind that the Woodcock has the entire lower parts, including the lining of wings, a reddish-brown color, while the snipe has the abdomen white, the throat and upper parts of the breast speckled, and the lining of the wings barred with white and black.

PIPING PLOVER.

Have you ever been to the sea-shore? Then, of course, you have met the Piping Plover, but, perhaps, not to know him. He is of the size of the robin, not quite so robust, but stands much taller, being mounted on rather long, stilt-like legs, which admirably fit him for the life which he is designed to fill in the world. He belongs to the family of wading birds, and seeks the principal part of his food in or by the water, which could not possibly be were his walking appendages curtailed the least bit of their fair proportions. But to be more precise in my word-picture, let me describe him to you as of a pale ashy-brown color, fading into grayish upon the under parts, and as having his head set off with some narrow black bands, that on the neck rarely, if ever, forming a perfect ring. His bill will be found to be short and stout and blunt, and there will be an appreciable lack of webbing between the middle and inner front toes.

Now that it is plain what the bird looks like, you are certainly prepared, more than ever, to take some interest in him in his brief stay by the sea. So strongly is he attached to the scenes rendered dear by past associations and memories that, from his winter home in the sunny South, and even from over the waters beyond our southern borders, he hails with delight the return of the vernal equinox, for he knows full well that it brings with it the summer’s heat and all its varied, priceless wealth of insect life.

So with the first spring signs of open weather he quits his brumal retreat, winds his way up along the trend of the Atlantic seaboard, and at last reaches in the nights of early April the sandy beaches of our Jersey coast. In flocks of a dozen individuals they run about the sand in a most lively manner, and utter all the while a variety of notes more or less pleasing, blending as they do with the deep-toned bass of the ocean. When this sound, welling up from a dozen throats, is heard in the dark it is particularly striking, as wild and weird as the whistling of a wind at sea through the rigging of a ship.

But these flocks soon disperse into pairs to breed. Slight depressions in the dry sand, and always in the midst of groups of broken colored shells, but out of the reach of the maddened waves, rather than in muddy, marshy places back of the beach-line, serve them for nests. This nesting among clustered shells seemingly points to a love for the beautiful. But may it not be that the shells but mark the various nest-positions in the unbroken waste of sand? We incline to this opinion. There is so much diversity manifested in the size of the groups and in the arrangement and coloration of the individual shells that comprise them, that no very great difficulty should be experienced by the several pairs nesting in the same locality in knowing each other’s nest.

While the birds are concerned with the cares of brood-raising, which is usually towards the close of May or the beginning of June, they confine their feeding to the damp, wet sand. Between it and the dry a clear line of separation is plainly noticeable. It is only when they are ready for the home duties that they are seen to resort to aerial navigation. Even when on the very boundary-line of the two stretches of sand, the wet and the dry, and with the nest almost in sight, they are known to assume wing, taking due care, however, to alight before they have fairly reached the spot. In flight an advantage, that of a more commanding view, is acquired, which walking does not give. But in leaving the nest for food, or for any other purpose, they, as before, walk some distance away before they venture to fly. There is a seeming purpose in so doing, the object to be gained being the deceiving of man and other enemies as to the real location of the nest.

All these precautions are undertaken for the sake of the eggs, although in color and markings these so closely resemble the dry sand and intermingled bits of foreign substances, that such actions seem all unnecessary. When birds have been flushed from the nest, and its exact position has been noted with the greatest care, I have failed, after several minutes of the closest searching, to detect the eggs, so true has been the color-harmony between them and the surrounding sand. This resemblance in coloration must be seen to be fully appreciated. In ground the eggs are the palest possible creamy-brown, but marked all over, quite sparingly, with small blackish-brown dots and specks, the largest hardly exceeding a pin’s head. Four is the usual number, and these, from their peculiar pear-shaped form, are placed with their points together in the centre of the nest. They are objects of more than ordinary solicitude, the little Plovers making most violent demonstrations and pleading piteously when they are approached. The mother employs all the well-known artifices, such as lameness, inability to fly, to draw the intruder away from the nest. The young run as soon as they leave the egg, and are great adepts at hiding, squatting, and remaining motionless. Their downy plumage so assimilates them to the sand that unless they reveal themselves by moving, it requires a very keen eye to distinguish them from the numberless tufts that are scattered about the higher reaches of the beach.

Although so essentially a bird of the sea-shore, yet in August many scores of these birds come up the Delaware River as far as tide-water extends, feeding upon the mud-flats and gravel-bars, and occasionally wending their way up along the courses of the creeks until they find themselves well into the country. It is interesting to watch them as they run in and out among the little hills and hollows of the mud in quest of their prey. They are happy, light-hearted fellows, who do not begrudge, when some racy tidbit has rewarded their hunting, to pipe a few notes of thanks to Him who watches as tenderly over them as over the mighty lords of the earth.

BOB WHITE.

Somewhat related to the grouse is the Quail, as he is called in the Northern States, or “Bob White,” his universally recognized appellation. His scientific name is _Ortyx Virginianus_. Differing from the Old World partridges, he has been assigned a place in the sub-family Odontophorinæ, of which five genera are said to exist, most of them being restricted to the extreme south-west of our country. His habits and history are full of interest to everybody.

Quails are restless, uneasy birds, attached to one place while rearing their family, but immediately upon the brood becoming able to travel, commencing their wanderings. There is no accounting for these movements, which sometimes deprive a whole district of their presence for a time, to populate a neighboring region previously without them. When such journeys are undertaken, a large number of birds participate, travelling on foot, and passing steadily through districts where food is plentiful, and seemingly without any definite destination in mind, so loath are they to use their wings, that in attempting to cross wide rivers and inlets immense numbers are said to perish. A limited and partial migration, it is highly probable, takes place annually from the more northern to warmer latitudes, influenced in its extent by the comparative severity of the seasons, being more distinctly migrating west than east of the Delaware River.

About the middle of March the winter flocks break up, and the mating begins. Although not indulging in the noisy and seemingly meaningless antics of the grouse to call attention to his personal attractiveness, Bob White, it would appear, becomes suddenly conscious of his comely looks and excellent voice. In a dignified manner, with head erect, he walks proudly about, inviting the opposite sex to view him at his best. From the orchard gate he calls a saucy good morning to the farmer, knowing that the law holds its _ægis_ over him at this time, but he keeps an eye to hawks, cats and other predatory animals that respect neither time, place nor season. He is polygamous, willing to assume any amount of family responsibility, and will help to rear two, or even three, broods a year, a successful pair often turning out twenty-five young in a season. It is not an uncommon occurrence to find a covey of little cheepers, scarcely able to fly, as late as November.

Although paired so early, the Quails do not proceed to the business of nidification in the central part of their range until about the middle of May. The leeward side of some dense tussock of grass, a mouldering stump in a wild, matted meadow, the woody margin of a clover field or orchard, or an old pasture overgrown with bramble thickets, are situations commonly chosen, the female, as is her undoubted right, taking the lead in fixing upon the site. An artificial bed of grasses and vegetable trash, filling a shallow depression, is the nest. Sometimes it is placed so as to be concealed by overarching grasses, through which a regular tunnel, several feet in length, conducts to the sanctum; and, at other times, is only covered with leaves and straw, which the birds themselves have rudely adjusted. The nest, which is constructed solely by the females of the family, varies in dimensions according to the number of this sex that anticipate using it, the male in the meantime going about in quest of food, or sitting upon a low twig close by, cheering his wives by his trisyllabic note, and very faithfully warning them of the imminence of danger.

The work is prosecuted with considerable zeal, three days at farthest sufficing to make the nest ready for the first egg, which is immediately laid, and which is followed by one on each consecutive day, until seven or eight have been deposited. As many as thirty eggs are sometimes found in a single nest, which is due to the polygamy of the male. Two, and often three and four females, are taken by a male, and two have been known to occupy simultaneously the same nest.

When a pair of birds has established itself in a locality from the first, and has been successful in rearing a family of young during the ensuing spring, if the females are in the majority the unprovided ones still continue, as a general thing, to linger with the parents after their more specially favored companions have mated and moved elsewhere. This is particularly noticeable in a new locality where the covey consists entirely of members of a single family. In cases where several families congregate in the fall, the chances are greatly in favor of monogamy. Small flocks are more decidedly polygamous than larger ones. We have never observed the converse--that is, more than one male to a female--but where several pairs are found in the same field, at slight distances from each other, there is sometimes a noticeable tendency to associate.

The eggs of the Quail are crystal white, sometimes slightly tinged with yellow, and pyriform in shape. Eighteen days are required for their hatching. Where the father is not fortunate enough to possess a harem, a part of the work devolves upon him, while the mother seeks food and recreation; but where there are several females, the work is divided very amicably among them, each sitting about half a day at a stretch, then calling her relief with a low note, if there be only two, the male taking no part in the labor of incubation whatever. Should the family be larger, two females will sit side by side on the eggs, there being too many in number for one breast to cover. Meanwhile the husband remains close by, chirping encouragement in a low tone, and betimes making the field vocal with his loud, clear whistle. He is exceedingly vigilant, and if a human being approaches the nest gives the alarm to his partners, who secretly withdraw from the nest, while he, thoughtful husband as he is, flings himself upon the ground in front of the intruder, feigning lameness or injury, and seeking by every device known to him to attract attention and pursuit, till having beguiled the enemy far away from his home he seeks safety for himself in flight. The experienced oölogist pays no regard to this deceit, seeing in it only a sign of the nearness of the coveted prize, but patiently continues his search until he has discovered its whereabouts.

Two broods are invariably raised and often a third, but the last appearing late in the summer, and scarcely attaining their growth before the coming of snow. If unmolested, it is evident, therefore, that the species would increase with great rapidity, as shown by the celerity with which regions, where the birds had been well nigh exterminated, have been replenished when a period of quiet for a season or two has been allowed them. The young run about in a very lively manner as soon as they have left the shell, and in a few days are given over to the care of the father, whom they follow and obey as readily as they did the mother, possibly because they do not recognize the change of guardians, while she returns to the cares of rearing another family.

During the spring and early summer both old and young find an abundance of food for themselves in the larvæ of various insects, the succulent shoots of growing plants and such seeds as abound. Later on, strawberries, blueberries, huckleberries and other wild fruits supply their demands. In August they grow fat upon grasshoppers, and as this is the time when seeds ripen, acorns and beech-nuts fall, and the stubble-fields are full of scattered wheat, rye, barley and maize, and insects are plentiful upon the ground, they feast themselves to satiety before the winter begins, until they have reached that delectable plumpness so highly esteemed by _bon vivants_. Attaining their full growth by the end of September, at least in the case of the earlier broods, the season of play for the partridges and sport for the gunner has come. Quail-shooting is regarded as a test of marksmanship in the United States. So rare and wild have the birds become by reason of incessant hunting, that it certainly requires skill and fine shooting to make a bag. Bred in the open fields, and feeding early in the morning and late in the evening, a man may beat a field all day, and put up only one or two birds, when he is certain that twice as many lay concealed, huddled up in little knots in out-of-the-way places, which the best of dogs might easily pass without discovering. Their inconspicuous colors, too, which are in keeping with the objects around them, so conceal them from the vision of the hunter, that, trusting to them, they will sit immovable until he has gone some distance beyond, when they will spring up and away like so many arrows, requiring a quick eye and a steady hand to turn and drop a brace.

When ultimately flushed, they fly to some particular covert, and so long as this thicket or fern-brake remains undiscovered, will repeatedly repair to it for safety and security. A rather curious circumstance, which has created no little discussion among American sportsmen, materially aids their concealment. When alighting, after being flushed, the Quail is said to give out no scent for some little time. This is supposed to be a voluntary act of retention of odor on the part of the bird, as a conscious method of protection. Some, while admitting the fact, believe it to be a power belonging to particular bevies, at least in a far greater degree than to others, like the custom of alighting upon the branches of trees when frightened, while others restrict the faculty to particular individuals rather than bevies. Our earlier ornithologists do not mention the retention of scent. It is probable, as claimed by a few, that Quails’ swift running over the dry leaves of upland woods or meadows allows little time and a poor surface for the transmission of the scent, and that when they drop suddenly and remain quiet no effluvium escapes, but which only becomes disseminated the very instant they move.

The open fields being smitten by the wild winds of November, and the reeds bruised and broken, the Quail retreats to the depths of the swamp or the shelter of a dense thicket, where he keeps life in him as best he can during the cold, stormy days, hunting the stubble and swamp for soft-shelled nuts and seeds, torpid beetles, and the hard fruits and seed-cases of grasses and weeds, some of which, the skunk cabbage for example, tainting his flesh with their flavor. Huddled together the forlorn covey allow the snow to cover them, trusting to shake it off on the return of the morning, but occasionally a crust freezes upon the surface, and the poor birds find themselves in a prison from which they cannot break out before they starve to death. The habit of huddling is peculiar to Quails the whole year round. They select at evening some spot of low ground, where the long grass affords shelter and warmth, and there they encamp, sleeping in a circle, shoulder to shoulder, with heads turned out, keeping each other warm, and ready to escape at a moment’s warning without stumbling over one another. A suitable roosting-place once found, night after night they repair thither, leaving it in the morning before sunrise to seek their breakfast.

Unless the winter be unusually mild, they may be seen associating in the pasture with the cattle, and even following them home to glean the grain that falls into the barnyard, and pick up the scraps that are thrown to the chickens. This delightful confidence is not always abused, for many persons take pains to foster the bevies they find spending the winter in some brushy hillside near the house by daily scattering grain or clover-seed upon the snow where the hungry birds may come and get it. The pert air with which one of the cocks will perch himself on a fence-rider or walk sedately along a stone wall in the early sunlight of a glistening January morning is reward enough to the benefactor, if he cares not to preserve them for the selfish pleasure of shooting them the following autumn.