Birds and all Nature, Vol. IV, No. 3, September 1898

"The birds of prey, the majority of which labor night and day to destroy the enemies of the husbandman, are persecuted unceasingly. This has especially been the case with the Hawk family, only three of the common inland species being harmful. These are the Goshawk, Cooper's Hawk, and the Sharp-shinned Hawk, the first of which is rare in the United States, except in winter. Cooper's Hawk, or the Chicken Hawk, is the most destructive, especially to Doves. The other Hawks are of great value, one of which, the Marsh Hawk, being regarded as perhaps more useful than any other. It can be easily distinguished by its white rump and its habit of beating low over the meadows. Meadow Mice, Rabbits, and Squirrels are its favorite food. The Red-tailed Hawk, or Hen Hawk, is another." It does not deserve the name, for according to Dr. Fisher, while fully sixty-six per cent of its food consists of injurious mammals, not more than seven per cent consists of poultry, and that it is probable that a large proportion of the poultry and game captured by it and the other Buzzard Hawks is made up of old, diseased, or otherwise disabled fowls, so preventing their interbreeding with the sound stock and hindering the spread of fatal epidemics. It eats Ground Squirrels, Rabbits, Mice, and Rats.

The Red-shouldered Hawk, whose picture we present to our readers, is as useful as it is beautiful, in fact ninety per cent of its food is composed of injurious mammals and insects.

The Sparrow Hawk (See Birds, vol. 3, p. 107) is another useful member of this family. In the warm months Grasshoppers, Crickets, and other insects compose its food, and Mice during the rest of the year.

Swainson's Hawk is said to be the great Grasshopper destroyer of the west, and it is estimated that in a month three hundred of these birds save sixty tons of produce that the Grasshopper would destroy.

THE RACCOON

ON ACCOUNT of the value of its skin, this interesting animal is much sought after by those who take pride in their skill in securing it. It is commonly known by its abbreviated name of Coon, and as it is of frequent occurrence throughout the United States, every country boy is more or less acquainted with its habits. As an article of food there is much diversity of opinion respecting its merits. It is hunted by some for the sport alone, which is doubtless to be lamented, and by others who enjoy also the pleasure of a palatable stew. As a pet it is also much prized.

The food of the Raccoon consists in the main of small animals and insects. The succulent Oyster also is a favorite article of its diet. It bites off the hinge of the Oyster and scrapes out the animal in fragments with its paws. Like the Squirrel when eating a nut, the Raccoon usually holds its food between its fore paws pressed together and sits upon its hind quarters when it eats. Poultry is also enjoyed by it, and it is said to be as destructive in the farm yard as the Fox, as it only devours the heads of the fowl.

When taken young the Coon is easily tamed, but often becomes blind soon after its capture. This is believed to be produced by the sensitiveness of its eyes, which are intended only to be used by night. As it is frequently awakened by day it suffers so much from the glare of light that its eyes gradually lose their vision. If it must be confined at all it should be in a darkened place. In zoological gardens we have frequently seen several of these animals exposed to the glaring sunlight, the result of ignorance or cruelty, or both.

Unlike the Fox, the Raccoon is at home in a tree, which is the usual refuge when danger is near, and not being very swift of foot, it is well that it possesses this climbing ability. According to Hallock, the Coons' abode is generally in a hollow tree, oak or chestnut, and when the "juvenile farmer's son comes across a Coon tree, he is not long in making known his discovery to friends and neighbors, who forthwith assemble at the spot to secure it." The "sport" is in no sense agreeable from a humane point of view, and we trust it will cease to be regarded as such by those who indulge in it. "The Raccoon makes a heroic struggle and often puts many of his assailants hors de combat for many a day, his jaws being strong and his claws sharp."

The young ones are generally from four to eight, pretty little creatures at first and about as large as half-grown Rats. They are very playful, soon become docile and tame, but at the first chance will wander off to the woods and not return. The Coon is a night animal and never travels by day; sometimes it is said, being caught at morning far from its tree and being unable to return thither, it will spend the hours of daylight snugly coiled up among the thickest foliage of some lofty tree-top. It is adroit in its attempts to baffle Dogs, and will often enter a brook and travel for some distance in the water, thus puzzling and delaying its pursuers.

A good sized Raccoon will weigh from fifteen to twenty pounds.

The curiosity of the Raccoon is one of its most interesting characteristics. It will search every place of possible concealment for food, examine critically any object of interest, will rifle a pocket, stand upright and watch every motion of man or animal, and indeed show a marked desire for all sorts of knowledge. Raccoons are apparently happy in captivity when properly cared for by their keepers.

WILD BIRDS IN LONDON

Their Number and Variety is Increasing Instead of Diminishing

WHETHER in consequence of the effective working of the Wild Birds' Charter or of other unknown causes, there can be no doubt in the minds of observant lovers of our feathered friends that of late years there has been a great and gratifying increase in their numbers in and around London, especially so, of course, in the vicinity of the beautiful open spaces which do such beneficent work silently in this province of houses. But even in long, unlovely streets, far removed from the rich greenery of the parks, the shabby parallelograms, by courtesy styled gardens, are becoming more and more frequently visited by such pretty shy songsters as Linnets, Blackbirds, Thrushes, and Finches, who, though all too often falling victims to the predatory Cat, find abundant food in these cramped enclosures. Naturally some suburbs are more favored than others in this respect, notably Dulwich, which, though fast losing its beautiful character under the ruthless grip of the builder, still retains some delightful nooks where one may occasionally hear the Nightingale's lovely song in its season.

But the most noticable additions to the bird population of London have been among the Starlings. Their quaint gabble and peculiar minor whistle may now be heard in the most unexpected localities. Even the towering mansions which have replaced so many of the slums of Westminster find favor in their eyes, for among the thick clustering chimneys which crown these great buildings their slovenly nests may be found in large numbers. In some districts they are so numerous that the irrepressible Sparrow, true London gamin that he is, finds himself in considerable danger of being crowded out. This is perhaps most evident on the sequestered lawns of some of the inns of the court, Gray's Inn Square, for instance, where hundreds of Starlings at a time may now be observed busily trotting about the greensward searching for food. Several long streets come to mind where not a house is without its pair or more of Starlings, who continue faithful to their chosen roofs, and whose descendants settle near as they grow up, well content with their surroundings. House Martins, too, in spite of repeated efforts on the part of irritated landlords to drive them away by destroying their nests on account of the disfigurement to the front of the dwelling, persist in returning year after year and rebuilding their ingenious little mud cells under the eaves of the most modern suburban villas or terrace houses. —Pall Mall Gazette.

THE PIGMY ANTELOPE

THE Pigmy Antelopes present examples of singular members of the family, in that they are of exceedingly diminutive size, the smallest being no larger than a large Rat, dainty creatures indeed. The Pigmy is an inhabitant of South Africa, and its habits are said to be quite similar to those of its brother of the western portion of North America.

The Antelope is a very wary animal, but the sentiment of curiosity is implanted so strongly in its nature that it often leads it to reconnoitre too closely some object which it cannot clearly make out, and its investigations are pursued until "the dire answer to all inquiries is given by the sharp 'spang' of the rifle and the answering 'spat' as the ball strikes the beautiful creatures flank." The Pigmy Antelope is not hunted, however, as is its larger congener, and may be considered rather as a diminutive curiosity of Natures' delicate workmanship than as the legitimate prey of man.

BIRDS OF ALASKA

No sooner had the twilight settled over the island than new bird voices called from the hills about us. The birds of the day were at rest, and their place was filled with the night denizens of the island. They came from the dark recesses of the forests, first single stragglers, increased by midnight to a stream of eager birds, passing to and fro from the sea. Many, attracted by the glow of the burning logs, altered their course and circled about the fire a few times and then sped on. From their notes we identified the principal night prowlers as the Cassin's Auklet, Rhinoceros Auk, Murrelet, and varieties of Petrel. All through the night our slumbers were frequently disturbed by birds alighting on the sides of the tent, slipping down with great scratching into the grass below, where our excited Dog took a hand in the matter, daylight often finding our tent strewn with birds he had captured during the night. When he found time to sleep I do not know. He was after birds the entire twenty-four hours.

In climbing over the hills of the island we discovered the retreats of these night birds, the soil everywhere through the deep wood being fairly honeycombed with their nesting burrows. The larger tunnels of the Rhinoceros Auks were, as a rule, on the slopes of the hill, while the little burrows of the Cassin's Auklet were on top in the flat places. We opened many of their queer abodes that ran back with many turns to a distance of ten feet or more. One or both birds were invariably found at the end, covering their single egg, for this species, like many other sea birds, divide the duties of incubation, both sexes doing an equal share, relieving each other at night.

The Puffins nested in burrows also, but lower down – often just above the surf. One must be very careful, indeed, how he thrusts his hand into their dark dens, for should the old bird chance to be at home, its vise-like bill can inflict a very painful wound. The rookeries of the Murres and Cormorants were on the sides of steep cliffs overhanging the sea. Looking down from above, hundreds of eggs could be seen, gathered along the narrow shelves and chinks in the rocks, but accessible only by means of a rope from the top. —Outing.

THE RED-SHOULDERED HAWK

You have heard of me before. I am the Hawk whose cry Mr. Blue Jay imitated, as you will remember, in the story "The New Tenants," published in Birds.

Kee-oe, kee-oe, kee-oe, that is my cry, very loud and plaintive; they say I am a very noisy bird; perhaps that is the reason why Mr. Blue Jay imitates me more than he does other Hawks.

I am called Chicken Hawk, and Hen Hawk, also, though I don't deserve either of those names. There are members of our family, and oh, what a lot of us there are – as numerous as the Woodpeckers – who do drop down into the barnyards and right before the farmer's eyes carry off a Chicken. Red Squirrels, to my notion, are more appetizing than Chickens; so are Mice, Frogs, Centipedes, Snakes, and Worms. A bird once in a while I like for variety, and between you and me, if I am hungry, I pick up a chicken now and then, that has strayed outside the barnyard. But only occasionally, remember, so that I don't deserve the name of Chicken Hawk at all, do I?

Wooded swamps, groves inhabited by Squirrels, and patches of low timber are the places in which we make our homes. Sometimes we use an old crow's nest instead of building one; we retouch it a little and put in a soft lining of feathers which my mate plucks from her breast. When we build a new nest, it is made of husks, moss, and strips of bark, lined as the building progresses with my mate's feathers. Young lady Red-shouldered Hawks lay three and sometimes four eggs, but the old lady birds lay only two.

Somehow Mr. Blue Jay never sees a Hawk without giving the alarm, and on he rushes to attack us, backed up by other Jays who never fail to go to his assistance. They often assemble in great numbers and actually succeed in driving us out of the neighborhood. Not that we are afraid of them, oh no! We know them to be great cowards, as well as the crows, who harass us also, and only have to turn on our foes to put them to rout. Sometimes we do turn, and seizing a Blue Jay, sail off with him to the nearest covert; or in mid air strike a Crow who persistently follows us. But as a general thing we simply ignore our little assailants, and just fly off to avoid them.

THE Hawk family is an interesting one and many of them are beautiful. The Red-shouldered Hawk is one of the finest specimens of these birds, as well as one of the most useful. Of late years the farmer has come to know it as his friend rather than his enemy, as formerly. It inhabits the woodlands where it feeds chiefly upon Squirrels, Rabbits, Mice, Moles, and Lizards. It occasionally drops down on an unlucky Duck or Bob White, though it is not quick enough to catch the smaller birds. It is said to be destructive to domestic fowls raised in or near the timber, but does not appear to search for food far away from its natural haunts. As it is a very noisy bird, the birds which it might destroy are warned of its approach, and thus protect themselves.

During the early nesting season its loud, harsh kee-oe is heard from the perch and while in the air, often keeping up the cry for a long time without intermission. Col. Goss says that he collected at Neosho Falls, Kansas, for several successive years a set of the eggs of this species from a nest in the forks of a medium sized oak. In about nine days after each robbery the birds would commence laying again, and he allowed them to hatch and rear their young. One winter during his absence the tree was cut down, but this did not discourage the birds, or cause them to forsake the place, for on approach of spring he found them building a nest not over ten rods from the old one, but this time in a large sycamore beyond reach. This seemed to him to indicate that they become greatly attached to the grounds selected for a home, which they vigilantly guard, not permitting a bird of prey to come within their limits.

This species is one of the commonest in the United States, being especially abundant in the winter, from which it receives the name of Winter Falcon. The name of Chicken Hawk is often applied to it, though it does not deserve the name, its diet being of a more humble kind.

The eggs are usually deposited in April or May in numbers of three or four – sometimes only two. The ground color is bluish, yellowish-white or brownish, spotted, blotched and dotted irregularly with many shades of reddish brown. Some of them are strikingly beautiful. According to Davie, to describe all the shades of reds and browns which comprise the variation would be an almost endless task, and a large series like this must be seen in order to appreciate how much the eggs of this species vary.

The flight of the Red-shouldered Hawk is slow, but steady and strong with a regular beat of the wings. They take delight in sailing in the air, where they float lightly and with scarcely a notable motion of the wings, often circling to a great height. During the insect season, while thus sailing, they often fill their craws with grass-hoppers, that, during the after part of the day, also enjoy an air sail.

THE DOVES OF VENICE

VENICE, the pride of Italy of old, aside from its other numerous curiosities and antiquities, has one which is a novelty indeed. Its Doves on the San Marco Place are a source of wonder and amusement to every lover of animal life. Their most striking peculiarity is that they fear no mortal man, be he stranger or not. They come in countless numbers, and, when not perched on the far-famed bell tower, are found on the flags of San Marco Square. They are often misnamed Pigeons, but as a matter of fact they are Doves of the highest order. They differ, however, from our wild Doves in that they are fully three times as large, and twice as large as our best domestic Pigeon. Their plumage is of a soft mouse color relieved by pure white, and occasionally one of pure white is found, but these are rare. Hold out to them a handful of crumbs and without fear they will come, perch on your hand or shoulder and eat with thankful coos. To strangers this is indeed a pleasing sight, and demonstrates the lack of fear of animals when they are treated humanely, for none would dare to injure the doves of San Marco. He would probably forfeit his life were he to injure one intentionally. And what beggars these Doves of San Marco are! They will crowd around, and push and coo with their soft soothing voices, until you can withstand them no longer, and invest a few centimes in bread for their benefit. Their bread, by the way, is sold by an Italian, who must certainly be in collusion with the Doves, for whenever a stranger makes his appearance, both Doves and bread vender are at hand to beg.

The most remarkable fact in connection with these Doves is that they will collect in no other place in large numbers than San Marco Square, and in particular at the vestibule of San Marco Church. True, they are found perched on buildings throughout the entire city, and occasionally we will find a few in various streets picking refuse, but they never appear in great numbers outside of San Marco Square. The ancient bell tower, which is situated on the west side of the place, is a favorite roosting place for them, and on this perch they patiently wait for a foreigner, and proceed to bleed him after approved Italian fashion.

There are several legends connected with the Doves of Venice, each of which attempts to explain the peculiar veneration of the Venetian and the extreme liberty allowed these harbingers of peace. The one which struck me as being the most appropriate is as follows:

Centuries ago Venice was a free city, having her own government, navy, and army, and in a manner was considered quite a power on land and sea. The city was ruled by a Senate consisting of ten men, who were called Doges, who had absolute power, which they used very often in a despotic and cruel manner, especially where political prisoners were concerned. On account of the riches the city contained, and also its values as a port, Venice was coveted by Italy and neighboring nations, and, as a consequence, was often called upon to defend itself with rather indifferent success. In fact, Venice was conquered so often, first by one and then another, that Venetians were seldom certain of how they stood. They knew not whether they were slave or victor. It was during one of these sieges that the incident of the Doves occurred. The city had been besieged for a long time by Italians, and matters were coming to such a pass that a surrender was absolutely necessary on account of lack of food. In fact, the Doges had issued a decree that on the morrow the city should surrender unconditionally.

All was gloom and sorrow, and the populace stood around in groups on the San Marco discussing the situation and bewailing their fate, when lo! in the eastern sky there appeared a dense cloud rushing upon the city with the speed of the wind. At first consternation reigned supreme, and men asked each other: "What new calamity is this?" As the cloud swiftly approached it was seen to be a vast number of Doves, which, after hovering over the San Marco Place for a moment, gracefully settled down upon the flagstones and approached the men without fear. Then there arose a queer cry, "The Doves! The Doves of San Marco!" It appears that some years before this a sage had predicted stormy times for Venice, with much suffering and strife, but, when all seemed lost, there would appear a multitude of Doves, who would bring Venice peace and happiness. And so it came to pass that the next day, instead of attacking, the besiegers left, and Venice was free again. The prophet also stated that, so long as the Doves remained at Venice prosperity would reign supreme, but that there would come a day when the Doves would leave just as they had come, and Venice would pass into oblivion. That is why Venetians take such good care of their Doves.

You will not find this legend in any history, but I give it just as it was told me by a guide, who seemed well versed in hair-raising legends. Possibly they were manufactured to order by this energetic gentleman, but they sounded well nevertheless. Even to this day the old men of Venice fear that some morning they will awake and find their Doves gone.

There in the shadow of the famous bell-tower, with the stately San Marco church on one side and the palace of the cruel and murderous Doges on the other, we daily find our pretty Doves coaxing for bread. Often you will find them peering down into the dark passage-way in the palace, which leads to the dungeons underneath the Grand Canal. What a boon a sight of these messengers of peace would have been to the doomed inmates of these murder-reeking caves. But happily they are now deserted, and are used only as a source of revenue, which is paid by the inquisitive tourist.

Venice still remains as of old. She never changes, and the Doves of San Marco will still remain. May we hope, with the sages of Venice, that they may remain forever. —Lebert, in Cincinnati Commercial Gazette.

BUTTERFLIES

IT may appear strange, if not altogether inappropriate to the season, that "the fair fragile things which are the resurrection of the ugly, creeping caterpillars" should be almost as numerous in October as in the balmy month of July. Yet it is true, and early October, in some parts of the country, is said to be perhaps the best time of the year for the investigating student and observer of Butterflies. While not quite so numerous, perhaps, many of the species are in more perfect condition, and the variety is still intact. Many of them come and remain until frost, and the largest Butterfly we have, the Archippus, does not appear until the middle of July, but after that is constantly with us, floating and circling on the wing, until October. How these delicate creatures can endure even the chill of autumn days is one of the mysteries.

Very curious and interesting are the Skippers, says Current Literature. They are very small insects, but their bodies are robust, and they fly with great rapidity, not moving in graceful, wavy lines as the true Butterflies do, but skipping about with sudden, jerky motions. Their flight is very short, and almost always near the ground. They can never be mistaken, as their peculiar motion renders their identification easy. They are seen at their best in August and September. All June and July Butterflies are August and September Butterflies, not so numerous in some instances, perhaps, but still plentiful, and vying with the rich hues of the changing autumnal foliage.

The "little wood brownies," or Quakers, are exceedingly interesting. Their colors are not brilliant, but plain, and they seek the quiet and retirement of the woods, where they flit about in graceful circles over the shady beds of ferns and woodland grasses.

Many varieties of the Vanessa are often seen flying about in May, but they are far more numerous and perfect in July, August, and September. A beautiful Azure-blue Butterfly, when it is fluttering over flowers in the sunshine, looks like a tiny speck of bright blue satin. Several other small Butterflies which appear at the same time are readily distinguished by the peculiar manner in which their hind wings are tailed. Their color is a dull brown of various shades, marked in some of the varieties with specks of white or blue.

"Their presence in the gardens and meadows," says a recent writer, "and in the fields and along the river-banks, adds another element of gladness which we are quick to recognize, and even the plodding wayfarer who has not the honor of a single intimate acquaintance among them might, perhaps, be the first to miss their circlings about his path. As roses belong to June, and chrysanthemums to November, so Butterflies seem to be a joyous part of July. It is their gala-day, and they are everywhere, darting and circling and sailing, dropping to investigate flowers and overripe fruit, and rising on buoyant wings high into the upper air, bright, joyous, airy, ephemeral. But July can only claim the larger part of their allegiance, for they are wanderers into all the other months, and even occasionally brave the winter with torn and faded wings."

THE FOX