Part 21

Certainly no more beautiful nests in shape exist than the spherical in form. The Long-billed Marsh Wren builds a nest of this type. Upon its arrival in the spring it seeks the inland swamps, or the brackish marshes of the sea-shore, where, amid the splatterdocks of the former and reeds of the latter, it finds suitable shelter and protection. There, day in and day out, during its entire summer stay, it pursues the even tenor of its life, happy and contented, never caring, like many of its remoter kin, for the charmed circle of man. Active, energetic and buoyant with hope, it skips about the tall rank herbage, in every direction, in quest of insects, making its presence known and felt by the lively chattering song, which resembles more nearly the sounds of an insect than those of a bird, which emanates from its grassy haunts. As these birds reach their breeding-grounds early in May, nest-building is soon begun, but so secret and mysterious are their movements at first, that we hardly know anything of their presence, except when they are colonized for the summer. The labor of building is entered into with considerable alacrity, and is mainly the result of the combined labor of both birds. Their nests are usually placed in low bushes, a few feet above the ground, or woven into the tops of sedges out of the reach of ordinary tides; but in very rare instances upon the ground in the midst of a clump of grasses. Ground nests are loosely-constructed affairs, which is not the case with those that are elevated to the tops of tussocks, or to the branches of shrubs and trees, which require more compactness and a better finish. The most beautiful, as well as artistic, nest which I have ever seen is the one shown in the cut. This nest was discovered in the vicinity of Philadelphia in the summer of 1878. A willow-branch, some fifteen feet above the ground, which was bifurcated, was made to do service. No ordinary skill was that which surmounted the seemingly insuperable difficulty of building a nest, not pensile in character, to such a swaying branch. That the birds accomplished the feat the nest itself was the evidence. In form this nest was nearly globular, four and a half and five inches in the two diameters. It was woven of the broad leaves of a species of scirpus, closely and evenly, and had its interstices well seamed with brownish cottony down. A thin delicate curtain of gauze, of the same material, hung around the opening, and this was continued within, forming a thick bedding of the softest, fluffiest nature, of which the most voluptuous sybarite might envy its fortunate possessor.

But the little Golden-crowned Kinglet, a mere mite of flesh and feathers, but with a great deal of spirit, builds a much handsomer nest. It is the perfection of symmetry. Man could not make with all the appliances at his command any thing more nearly globular. But its beauty! It looks like a ball of green moss, the delicate patches of moss being so artfully arranged as to completely hide the dry stems of grasses that constitute the walls. No moss ever spread itself over the ground, or over a stump or tree-trunk, more evenly. When it is known that this Kinglet builds its nest among the slender feathered branches of the hemlock spruce, there is manifestly a reason for the fern-like tracery upon the exterior, so necessary for the preservation of its home. Such a handsome and imposing structure would be far from complete were the inside not in keeping with the outside. But the birds have left nothing to be desired in this particular. The softest and purest of down lines the little bed-chamber, and even swells in its lightness till ready to overflow the neat circular door-way.

Perhaps the most graceful thing you may ever expect to find when on the quest, fitted to be considered the work of the fairies, is the pretty lace hammock of the Parula Warbler. You must search for it early in June, in remote but thin woods, but never far from running water. Often you will see it upon a branch overhanging a stream. The slender twig of a birch is sometimes chosen for its suspension, the terminal spray of a hemlock spruce, or a horizontal branch of a white oak. Like a watch-pocket, with the opening in the side, it is lightly suspended. It is made of a delicate lace-work, the grayish-green usnea moss, that grows on old trees. The whole fabric is the work of two little birds with slate-blue backs and yellow breasts. No other bird of our fauna builds a nest akin to its swinging, eery nest. It is true much of the material is found in position when the builders commence their labor, but the exquisite outline and finish, as well as the cozy interior, are due to the skill of the birds themselves. Even when the structure is just so far completed that occupancy by the female is possible, the male never wearies of its adornment by additional filaments of usnea brought from a distance. He is the happiest of fellows, for his little beak always finds something to do while his patient wife is busy with the duties that lead to maternity.

Coming like whirling leaves, half autumn yellow, half green of spring, their colors blending like the outer petals of grass-green daffodils, no more sociable and confiding little creatures are to be found in our midst than the Yellow Warblers. They are as much at home in the trees by the house as in the fields and woods. Wherever they wander, the glints of sunshine that flash from their backs should make the most miserable complainer feel the summer’s charm. But in spite of their seeming preference for man, they are prone to build in lonely fields and by-ways. In such places it becomes one of the especial victims which the Cow Bird selects to foster its random eggs. But the Warbler puts its intelligence effectively to work, and builds a second story to its nest, thus flooring over the unwelcome eggs. This expedient is repeated as long as the Cow Bird continues her mischief, until sometimes a three-story nest is achieved. The outside of the nest, composed of glistening milkweed flax, is pressed into a felt-like case, the fibres serving at the same time to lash the nest to its support. Within, to the depth of an inch, is a soft sponge-like material, which the birds have made from the wool they have gathered from the stems of young ferns. A few horse-hairs, to give shape and stability to the nest, are to be found in the inside of the felt-like lining.

Hundreds of nests, quite as novel as any that have been described, might be instanced, showing varieties from so-called normal forms, but I shall content myself with only another example. Everyone is familiar with the Ruby-throated Humming Bird, so common in the eastern half of the United States. It is the smallest of all our birds. But its nest, which is by no means scarce, is a rare sight to the average man and woman. No nest can be compared with it. It is a thing of beauty and a joy forever. A mass of cotton, with a hole in the top, and thatched all round with blue-gray lichens, and just as big as a walnut, conveys a good idea of its appearance. But all nests are not made of cotton. The yellow wool that forms the dress of the undeveloped fern-frond, or the red shoddy that is wind-swept into heaps outside some woollen factory, is often made to take the place of the down of the seed of the poplar. Not to be mentioned in the same breath with these, is the nest I am now about to describe. It was saddled upon the horizontal bough of a small white oak-tree that grew on the side of a thicket, and was peculiar from the nature of the material that composed its inner fabric. This substance resembled burnt umber in color, and was as soft as the finest wool, or the fluffiest down, and proved, upon examination, to be the mycelium of a fungus which the builders had gathered from decaying stumps or mildewing tree-branch.

STRANGE FRIENDSHIP.

Somewhat widely distributed throughout temperate North America, but nowhere very abundant, is the little Acadian Owl, or Saw-whet Owl, as he is popularly designated. In Eastern Pennsylvania he seems notably scarce, but this may be attributed to his pre-eminently nocturnal and secluded habits. Being a denizen of dense pine forests, and only venturing abroad in quest of food at the close of the day, his presence and numbers remain to many a mystery. Hollow trees, and the dark caverns of rocks, are his natural retreats, and as these are to be met with largely in densely-timbered regions and sequestered localities, he is seldom, if ever, seen in close proximity to human habitations. He seemingly shuns rather than courts the society of man. When routed from his burrow in the broad glare of day he becomes very much bewildered, and is scarcely able to escape the approach of danger.

The common appellation of Saw-whet Owl, which is applied to the species, owes its origin to the close resemblance which the notes of the bird bear to the noise produced by the filing of a saw. These notes are so deceptive, that persons unacquainted with their source have fancied themselves in the vicinity of a saw-mill, or in near presence to a woodman occupied in whetting a saw. Audubon, hearing these notes in a thicket for the first time, was thus deceived. The same distinguished writer gives, on the authority of Mr. McCullock, an interesting description not only of the notes of this Owl, but also of his remarkable powers of ventriloquism. On a certain occasion his informant was aroused by what appeared to be the feeble tones of a distant bell. But in nearing the spot whence the sounds emanated, they apparently shifted from point to point, being heard at one time close by, and at the next moment in the distance, now on the left, then on the right, and as often in the rear as in the front. Finally the author of these sounds was discovered at the entrance of his burrow in a birch-tree. Stationing himself at the base of the tree in full view of the bird who was calling to his partner, Mr. McCullock had a splendid opportunity of observing an exhibition of his singular and exceptional ventriloquial powers.

Smooth, gliding and noiseless is the flight of this Owl, and but slightly elevated and protracted. When seeking for food he may be seen sailing over low meadows in the neighborhood of his accustomed haunts, or, perched upon a stump or fence-rail adjoining thereto, quietly gazing in every direction for whatever of life may chance to manifest itself, which he seizes with remarkable adroitness, even sometimes venturing to assail prey larger than himself. The smaller birds, awakened from their perch by his cries, fall ready victims to his rapacity.

Hollow trees, or the deserted nests of other species, are selected for breeding-quarters. The eggs, varying from four to six in number, are pure white, sub-spherical, of crystalline clearness, and measure one and one-eighth by one and seven-eighths inches. The food of this interesting little Owl, which is not so large as a robin, though appearing bulkier, consists of small quadrupeds and birds, but chiefly of various species of insects.

When taken quite young, and held in confinement, this Owl becomes quite tame, permitting strangers as well as his keeper to handle him with the utmost freedom, without so much as resenting such familiarity. But a greater attachment is manifested towards the master whom he is able to recognize by the sound of his voice, and in whose presence he is peculiarly fascinating and agreeable.

Like _Scops asio_--the Red Owl--he leads a solitary existence, save on the approach of warm weather, when the sexes are discovered together, or are heard calling one to the other. Mating commences early in April, and about the middle of the month the birds have located their nests in the hollow of a tree, about twenty feet from the ground, where the female lays her complement of eggs. The entrance to the hole is very small, scarcely two inches in diameter. Upon the female devolves the whole work of incubation, although the male takes a hand in raising the young. The latter leave the nest about the first week of May, and when disturbed make a noise that sounds like a dog sniffling the air, which, when heard, especially at night in heavy timber, is quite certain to startle one and make him fancy a bear or some such animal up a tree near by.

Some years ago there lived in the hollow of an oak tree, not far from Germantown, a common Chickaree Squirrel--_Sciurus Hudsonius_--with this little Owl as his sole companion. This association reminded me of the connection of the burrowing owl of the West with the singular settlements of the prairie dog, the life-relations of the two creatures being really intimate in very many localities, although the owls are simply attracted to the villages of the prairie-dogs as the most suitable places for shelter and nidification, where they find eligible ready-made burrows and are saved the trouble of digging for themselves. Community of interest makes them gregarious to an extent unusual among rapacious birds, while the exigencies of life on the plains cast their lot with the rodents. That the owls live at ease in the settlements, and on familiar terms with their four-footed neighbors, is an undoubted fact, but that they have any intimate domestic relations is open to question. That the quadruped and the birds are often seen to scuttle at each other’s heels into the same hole when alarmed is no proof that they live together, for in such a case the two merely seek the nearest shelter, independently of each other. In the larger settlements there are thousands upon thousands of burrows, many of them occupied by the dogs, but more, perhaps, vacant. These latter are the homes of the owls. It is possible that the respective retreats of a dog and an owl may have one common vestibule, but this does not imply that they nest together. There are fewest owls in the towns most densely populated by the dogs and the greatest number in the deserted villages, and this is strong evidence in point. But the owls are by no means confined to the dog-towns, nor even to the similar communities of other gregarious spermophiles. They sometimes occupy the underground dens of wolves, foxes and badgers. When the subject has been carefully investigated, the owls never appear to enter the same hole or burrow with a squirrel, and a squirrel is never seen to enter a burrow that was occupied by owls, however strongly he may be tempted by fear to enter the first hole he should come to. The spermophile never likes to enter any burrow but his own, and has been known to run past any number of inviting entrances in order that he may hide himself in his own domicile.

In the case of the Chickaree Squirrel and the Saw-whet Owl, they occupied the same hole together in perfect harmony and mutual good-will. It was not an accidental occurrence, the Squirrel merely seeking the cavity to escape a danger that impended, for the bird and the Squirrel had been repeatedly observed to enter the hole together, and in the most amicable manner possible, as though they had always shared the apartment. Ordinarily the Chickaree is a very pugnacious creature, attacking with the greatest fierceness the gray and black squirrel whenever they had the temerity to cross his path. He seems to be ever bent upon blood. Though strictly by nature a rodent, subsisting principally upon nuts and the bark of trees, which his powerful incisors enable him to manipulate effectively, yet he has not always remained true to his instincts, for he has been frequently detected in eating the eggs of birds, and also in the seizure of the feathered denizens of our lawns and woods, which he will capture with all the skill of the blood-thirsty weasel. His method of operation is peculiar. He will lie in wait, concealed from view by the dense foliage of the trees which he is wont to affect when in quest of game, and when some unsuspecting bird hovers near pounces upon it with unerring precision, and effecting its capture proceeds to suck, sitting up in true squirrel fashion, the life-sustaining fluid through a wound inflicted in the side of the neck. Having satiated his thirst, which may have been the prime object of the capture, the dead body of the bird is dropped, and the little monster, upon erect haunches, poses, the embodiment of perfect contentment.

But in the case of the Owl it was otherwise. Perhaps it was too large for the monster to attack, or, knowing from rumor of gossiping friends the reputation of the former for cruelty and murder, a conciliatory spirit was thought the best to adopt. No one knows the bitter character of the first interview, or whether a liking for each other sprang up from the beginning. Be this as it may, there can be no denying the fact that a friendship was cemented between the two animals, widely divergent in structural peculiarities as they are known to be, that gave hope of becoming long and enduring.

NATURE’S LITTLE STORE-KEEPER.

One of the most familiar of North American quadrupeds is the Hackee, or Chipping Squirrel, as he is sometimes termed, from the strange, quaint utterances which he emits while rollicking with his fellows or in quest of something to eat. He is a beautiful little creature, notable alike for the dainty elegance of his form and for the pleasing tints with which his dress is arrayed. His general color is brownish-gray upon the back, warming into orange-brown upon the forehead and hinder quarters. Five longitudinal black stripes and two streaks of yellowish-white adorn the dorsum and sides, which render him a most conspicuous being and one readily distinguishable from any other animal. His abdomen and throat are white. He is slightly variable in color according to locality, and has been known to be so capricious of hue as to become a pure white or a jetty black. But for the commonness of the species, which is found in great numbers in almost every place, his fur, from its extreme beauty, would long since have taken nearly as high rank as sable or ermine.

No quadruped is so brisk or so lively. His quick, rapid movements have not inaptly compared him to the wren. As he whisks about the branches of the brushwood and small timber among which he is chiefly met, or shoots through their interstices with his peculiar jerking movements, and his odd clicking cry, like the chip-chipping of newly-hatched chickens, the analogy between himself and the bird is strikingly apparent. Occurring in great plenty, and being a bold little creature, he is much persecuted by small boys, who, with long sticks, and well-directed blows, manage to fell to the earth many a luckless fellow as he endeavors to escape his pursuers by running along the rail fences.

Hackees delight in sequestered localities. There they tunnel their homes, preferring some old tree, or a spot of earth sheltered by a wall or a bank. Their burrows are rather complicated affairs, running often to great lengths, so that the task of digging the animal out of his retreat becomes one of no easy accomplishment. Sandy patches of ground, on the outskirts of a woods, are not unusually chosen for burrows. A hole, almost perpendicular, is drilled into the earth to a depth of three feet, and is thence continued with one or more windings, rising a little nearer the surface until it has advanced some nine or ten feet, when it is made to terminate in a large circular nest, made of oak leaves and dried grasses. Small lateral galleries branch off from the main burrow, in which these provident little creatures lay up their winter’s provisions. Wheat, Indian corn, buckwheat, hazel-nuts, acorns and the seeds of grasses have been found in their underground receptacles, a proof, were further evidence lacking, that they do not pass the cold famine months in a sluggish and benumbed condition. Several layers of leaves, aggregating nine inches in thickness, are often found over the entrance, as a protection from frosts, which are further prevented from intrusion by the sealing up of the mouth from within.

Everything is done by the Hackee in a business-like manner. In gathering his food, lest the sharp beak of the nut may injure his cheeks when he places the fruit in his pouch, he nips off the point, and then by the aid of his fore-paws deliberately pushes the nut into one of his pouches. Another and another are similarly treated, and taking a fourth between his teeth, he dives into his burrow, and, having packed them methodically away, returns to the surface for a fresh cargo. Four nuts are his load at each journey. With his check-pouches distended to their fullest capacity, and laboring most truly under an embarrassment of riches, the little fellow presents a most ludicrous appearance.

When menaced by foes, by which so defenceless and conspicuous an animal is sure to be surrounded in great numbers, the Hackee makes at once for his burrow, and is there secure from the attacks of nearly all enemies. One foe there is, however, that cares naught for the burrow, but follows the poor Hackee through all of its windings, and never fails to attain his sanguinary object. This remorseless foe is the stoat, or ermine, whose only _penchant_ is the blood, and not the flesh, of his victim.

Early in November the Hackee moves into his winter-quarters, excepting in occasional instances when the sun shines with peculiar warmth, and is not seen again until the beginning of spring. The young, to the number of four or five, are produced in May, and there is generally a second brood some time in August. A rather pugnacious animal is the male Hackee, and during the combats which are frequently waged when several males meet, their tails have been known to snap asunder from the violence of their movements, for these members, it is undoubtedly true, are wonderfully brittle in their structure.

Pretty as he is, and graceful as are his movements, it hardly pays to keep the animal in a domesticated state, for his temper is very uncertain, and he is generally sullen even towards his keeper. But could he be induced to take to the life of a captive kindly and pleasantly, he would, by his cunning little ways, prove a most agreeable companion.

Some years ago an American writer of note had a pair of these animals which made their home in the foundation wall of her house. A row of wild cherry trees stood near the lawn in the rear of the building, which the little fellows were wont to visit many times daily, carrying off in their pouches quite a number at a time of the numerous cherry pits that lay scattered over the ground.