Birds and Nature Vol. 9 No. 1 [January 1901]

    Louise Jamison.

THE SOLITARY SANDPIPER

He is a curious little chap, the Solitary Snipe, and we used to call him Tip-up. He delights to “see-saw” and “teeter” down a clay bank, with a tiny “peep-po,” “peep-po,” just before he pokes in his long, slender bill for food.

He is very tough, and possesses as many lives as the proverbial cat. I have taken many a shot at him – fine sand-shot at that – and from a gun with a record for scattering, and I never succeeded in knocking over but one Tip-up while on a hunt for taxidermy specimens. I failed to secure even this one, though he flopped over in the water and floated down upon the surface of the shallows toward where I stood, knee-deep awaiting his coming. He was as dead as any bird should have been after such a peppering; yes, he was my prize at last, or so I thought as I reached out my hand to lift his limp-looking little body from the water. He was only playing possum after all. With a whirl of his wings and a shrill “peep-po,” “peep-po,” he darted away and disappeared up stream and out of sight beyond the alders. To add to my disappointment a red-headed woodpecker began to pound out a tantalizing tune upon the limb of a dead hemlock. No sand-shot could reach that fellow, desire him as much as I might. Then a bold kingfisher, with a shrill, saucy scream, darted down before me, grabbed a dace and sailed to a branch opposite to enjoy his feast, well knowing, the rascal! that I had an unloaded gun and had fired my last shell. How he knew this I am not able to say, but he did. Wiser fellows in bird lore than I may be able to explain this. I cannot.

The Solitary Sandpiper is well named. He is always at home wherever found, and always travels alone, be it upon the shelving rock-banks of a river or the clay-banks of a rural stream. He possesses, after a fashion, the gift of the chameleon and can moderately change the color of his coat, or feathers, rather. When he “teeters” along a blue clay bank he looks blue, and when he “see-saws” along brown or gray rocks he looks gray or brown, as the case may be.

The city boy who spends his vacation in the rural parts and fishes for dace, redfins or sunfish, knows the Solitary Sandpiper. To the country boy he is an old acquaintance, for he has taken many a shot, with stone or stick, at the spry little Tip-up, who never fails to escape scot free to “peep-po,” “peep-po” at his sweet content.

    H. S. Keller.

THE KNOT OR ROBIN SNIPE

(Tringa canutus.)

The Knot or Robin Snipe is a bird of several names, as it is also called the Red-breasted Ash-colored Sandpiper, the Gray-back and the Gray Snipe. It is quite cosmopolitan, breeding in the far north of both hemispheres, but in winter migrating southward and wintering in the climate of the southern United States and Central America. The Knot belongs to the Snipe family (Scolopacidae), which includes one hundred or more species, about forty-five of which are inhabitants of North America. Nearly all the species breed in the higher latitudes of the northern hemisphere. These birds frequent the shores of large bodies of water and are seldom observed far from their vicinity. Their bills are long and are used in seeking food in the soft mud of the shore.

The Knot visits the great lakes during its migrations and is frequently observed at that time. Its food, which consists of the smaller crustaceans and shells, can be as readily obtained on the shores of these lakes as on those of the ocean, which it also follows.

Dr. Ridgway tells us that “Adult specimens vary individually in the relative extent of the black, gray and reddish colors on the upper parts; gray usually predominates in the spring, the black in midsummer. Sometimes there is no rufous whatever on the upper surface. The cinnamon color of the lower parts also varies in intensity.”

Little is known of the nest and eggs of the Knot owing to its retiring habits at the nesting time and the fact that it breeds in the region of the Arctic Circle, so little frequented by man. One authentic report, that of Lieutenant A. W. Greely, describes a single egg that he succeeded in obtaining near Fort Conger while commanding an expedition to Lady Franklin Sound. This egg was a little more than an inch in length and about one inch in diameter. Its color was a “light pea-green, closely spotted with brown in small specks about the size of a pinhead.”

VIOLA BLANDA

(Sweet White Violet.)

Serene the thrush’s song, all undisturbed,
Its rows of pearls, a marvel of completeness,
Then the soft drip of falling tears I heard,
Poor weeping bird, who envied so thy sweetness!

    – Nelly Hart Woodworth.

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A BIRD

My name is Dewey, and no bird was ever prouder of his name. I know if Admiral Dewey could see me he would feel proud of his namesake, as I am said to be an unusually handsome, intelligent bird. I have been laughing in my wings for many months, hearing people say what kind of a bird I am. Some say I am an oriole; some a male, others a female; another a meadowlark; another not a meadowlark, but some kind of lark. One thing they agree upon, that I go on a lark from early morn till “Dewey eve.” I am said to have a little of the bluejay, and points like dozens of birds. When I was about six weeks old I was quite large and fluffy, but very much of a baby, for I knew nothing about feeding myself. My tail was long, olive on top, yellow underneath; wings black, with cream color on the edges – on the lower feathers just a line, on the upper ones quite a little wider, at the top short yellow feathers, making lovely little scallops; head and back olive-brown; rump more on the yellow; throat and breast light yellow, with a tinge of blue under the wings, and belly only tinted. As I grew older I kept changing, and now at nine months old my breast is light-orange, belly light-yellow, head and back deeper olive, rump deeper yellow. I broke my tail all off in the fall, and when it came in, the upper feathers were black, with yellow a quarter of an inch at the rump; under ones yellow and black. On my head are almost invisible stripes of black, on my neck pretty broken wavy ones. My eyes are large and bright, my bill everyone says is the handsomest they have ever seen, very long and pointed as a needle. Underneath ivory white, on top black, with a white star at the head. The admiration of all are my legs and claws, as I keep them so clean, and they are a beautiful blue, just the shade of malachite. I am seven inches long, and for the last month have been getting black spots over my eyes and on my throat. Now what kind of a bird am I?

One June afternoon I thought I was old enough to take a walk by myself, so off I started, without asking permission of my father or mother. All went well for awhile, and I was having a delightful time, seeing many new strange things. Then all at once I began to feel very tired and hungry, and thought I would go home, but which way to go I knew not. I went this way and that and peeped as loud as ever I could, calling “Mother! mother!” but no answer came. Finally I sat down, tucked my head under my wing and went to sleep. The next thing I knew something was coming down over me and I was held very tight. I screamed, pecked, and tried my best to get away. Then someone said very gently: “Don’t be afraid, little birdie; I am not going to harm you, but send you to a lady who loves little birds, and will take good care of you.” I was dreadfully frightened, but I did not make another peep. We went a long way. Then I heard the little boy say: “Charlotte, will you please take this bird to Miss Bascom, for she was so kind to me when I was sick?” I changed hands, and off we went. Soon I heard some one calling out: “There comes Charlotte with a bird.” Then another voice said: “I wonder if it is another sparrow;” but when she saw me she exclaimed, “What a perfect beauty!” took me in her hand and I knew at once I had found a good friend and new mother. Bread and milk were ordered. Of course, I did not know what bread and milk were, but I was so hungry I could have swallowed dirt or stones, so there was no trouble about my taking it, and I wished all birds could have such delicious food. I was taken up-stairs to my new home, where everything was in pink and green and looked so fresh I thought I was back in the clover field. My new mother (for that is what I mean to call her) took me up to what she called a cage and said: “Tricksey and Cervera, I want to introduce you to your new brother.” Tricksey charmed me at once, for he was like a ray of sunshine in his dress of gold, but when I looked at Cervera I laughed right out in his face. It was very rude, but I know if any of you had been in my place you would have done the same thing. Of all the ugly specimens of a bird I had ever seen he was the very worst. He was Tricksey’s size, but only had his baby feathers and one tail feather. He was dirt color, had big staring eyes, and such a bill, almost as large as his head, which was perfectly flat. He looked so common and ill-bred that I wondered how dainty Tricksey ever sat beside him. I was too sleepy to ask any questions and was soon fast asleep on my new mother’s finger; then was put into a nice little basket filled with cotton. The next day Tricksey was very kind to me, but Cervera was cross and pecked me every time he got a chance. Tricksey said: “I have tried to be kind to that old Spaniard, Cervera, but I do not like him and will not have him snuggle close to me nights, so I fight him until he gets into the swing. If you will sleep in the cage you may put your wings close to mine, for you are so pretty and clean.” When bedtime came my new mother said I was too large for the basket, and I might try sleeping in the cage, so she put me in and made Cervera get up into the swing. Just as Tricksey and I were going to sleep Cervera began swinging with all his might, and would reach down, peck us on the head and pull our feathers out. When he was caught he was taken out and made to sleep in the basket. In the morning we were all let out on the floor, and it was amusing to see Cervera mimic everything Tricksey did. If Tricksey took a drink Cervera did, and would follow everywhere he went.

About that time I saw coming into the room a large, striped thing, with shining, green eyes, and my heart beat so fast I could hardly breathe. Tricksey whispered in my ear: “You need not be at all afraid; that is only Taffy, the cat, and we are the best of friends.” Taffy jumped into my new mother’s lap, and we three stood on the table and ate bread and milk together. The first time I was left in the room alone I looked around to see what would be nice to play with. First I went over to the dressing table, carried two large cuff-buttons and put them into my drinking cup, another pair I put on the floor of the cage with two large coral hairpins, two shell pins, and some studs. I stuck all the pins on anything I could pick up and threw them on the floor; turned over a basket which was filled with ribbon and lace; some I left on the floor, and with the rest I trimmed the cage. When I heard my new mother coming I began to tremble. She stood speechless for a moment, then said: “You rogue of a bird; how shall I punish you?” Then took me in her hand and kissed me, and I knew the future was clear, and I could have all the fun I wanted. Tricksey had the asthma very bad, and sometimes a little whisky on some sugar would relieve him. It was funny to see that bad Cervera maneuvre to get Tricksey off the perch so he could eat the sugar and whisky. Tricksey grew worse instead of better, and one morning my new mother was wakened early by his hard breathing. She took him off from his perch and found his claws ice-cold, and he was so weak he could hardly hold on. He lay in her hand a moment, then threw back his pretty head and all was over. We were all heart-broken and shed many tears, for we were powerless to bring back to life that little bird we loved so dearly. I really felt sorry for that horrid Cervera. He missed Tricksey, and for days seemed to be looking for him. One evening he went out the window, and we never saw him again.

I am very fond of sweet apples and generally whenever I want anything that is down-stairs I go and get it. I love grapes better than any other fruit. When I want one I hop back and forth on the back parlor table, then on top of a high back chair and tease until one is given to me. I like best to have my new mother hold a grape in her right hand while I perch on her left and suck all the rich, sweet juice next the skin out first; then I take the grape over on the table on a paper and knock it until all the seeds come out before I eat it. I like bananas, too, and go to the fruit dish and open one myself. Every morning I perch on the plate or finger-bowl and eat my orange.

We usually have our orange in our room, and sometimes I get so impatient I fly over to the bed, back to the orange, and beg my new mother to get up. I always take a drink out of the finger bowl and often said to myself, “What a fine bathtub this would make.” When fall came I began going to bed at 5 o’clock, and at 7 was awakened and taken out to dessert. One night I became tired of waiting and went out into the dining-room very quietly, and the first thing I spied was a finger-bowl, so thought that was just the time for a bath. In I went. They heard the splashing and looked up to see everything as well as myself soaking wet. Of course they thought it very cunning, but after I did it for three nights I was told two baths a day were too much for me. I made up my mind if I could not take a bath in the finger-bowl at night, I would in the morning and, as I refused to go near my old bathtub, the bowl was given me for my own. There was a bowl of Wandering Jew on the dining-table, and several times I took a bath in the center. All said I made a beautiful picture, but when they found I was tearing the vine all to pieces it was not so pretty and many lectures were given to me, but I heeded them not, and if taken away I would walk (for I can walk as well as hop) all over the table on the ends of my toes and look every way but towards the bowl; then, when no one was looking, grab a piece and take it up on top of a picture. One day I trimmed all of the pictures, and there was none left in the bowl, so I had to look up some other mischief.

When I go out to dinner I have my own little table cloth and plate put by my new mother’s. I usually take a little of everything; chicken and cranberry jelly is very good. Sometimes I do not behave very well, for I go tiptoeing across the table to my grandmother’s plate, hop on the edge, and see if she has anything I like. When dinner was ready to be served I went over on the sideboard, made holes in all the butter balls, then took some mashed potato and boiled onion and put them to cool in a big hole I had made in an apple. Few people know that birds are ever sick at their stomachs. I had been in the habit of eating a little shaved hickorynut that was put in a half shell and kept in a dish on the back parlor table. When I came down stairs I usually took a taste, and it seemed to agree with me. For a change I ate a little chestnut, and soon began to feel bad, so went off by myself and tried to go to sleep. When my new mother saw me she said she knew I was not well, for I never acted that way in the daytime. She put me in my cage, and sat down beside me. I would close my eyes and open my bill, and she thought I was dying until I opened my bill very wide and out came the chestnut in a lump a half inch long and a quarter wide.

My mother’s writing desk is a favorite place of mine. I get into drawers, pigeon holes and ink; pictures and all sorts of small things I throw on the floor. Once I stole ever so many dimes and pennies. I can lift a silver dollar and often carry a coffee-spoon all about the room, so you see I have a very strong bill. If anything is lost all say “Dewey must have taken it.” One day my new mother looked until she was tired for her thimble. When she asked me for it, I pretended I did not hear, but as she was going into the dining-room I dropped it down on her head from the top of the portiere. I often perch on a basket on top of the book case in the writing room. When I saw a new white veil beside me I went to work and made ten of the prettiest eyelet holes you can imagine, right in front; some were round and some star-shaped. As I grew older I said, “I will not sleep in my cage.” For a few nights I insisted upon sleeping on the brass rod at the head of the bed, then changed to the top of the curtain. I have a piece of soft flannel over some cotton put on the ledge and on the wall, so I will not take cold. If it is very cold I get behind the frill of the curtain, so no one can see me. If warm I turn around so my tail hangs over the outside. When my new mother comes in I open my eyes, make a bow, and, if not too sleepy, come down and sit on her hand. I never chirp or peep, and when I hide and hear “Dewey, Dewey,” I do not answer but fly down on my new mother’s head, shoulder or hand. Taffy gets so angry at me. I know he often feels like killing me. I wake up early mornings, and take my exercise by flying back and forth from a picture on one side of the room to the head of the bed. When Taffy is on the foot of the bed I fly very low, almost touching him with my wings, and say, “You lazy cat, why don’t you wake up and hear the little birds sing to God Almighty; why don’t you wake up?” I soon hear words that are not used in polite society, and next see the end of his tail disappearing around the corner of the door. Before I go to sleep at night I exercise again. One afternoon Taffy was trying to take a nap in a chair in the back parlor. I kept flying over him, making a whizzing sound with my wings. When he could endure it no longer he went into the writing-room and sat down by his mother. I went in to take a luncheon on the table. Taffy stood up on his hind legs, reached out a velvet paw, and gave me such a slap I fell upon the floor. I was not hurt in the least, flew up on a picture and shook with laughter at the punishment and scolding Mr. Taffy was getting. He said very naughty words, scratched and bit, but he was conquered at last, and has behaved like a gentleman ever since. The first time I saw the snow I was wild with delight, flew to the window and tried to catch the pretty white flakes. But when I heard the sleigh bells they struck terror to my heart, for I thought a whole army of cats was coming, as all I knew about bells are Taffy’s. Not long ago my new mother was very ill and had to send for a strange physician, who knew nothing about me. When I heard him coming upstairs I hid behind the curtain and watched him fix a white powder in a paper. When he laid it on the table I swooped down, grabbed it and took it into my cage. After that I was kept busy, as my grandmother was ill for many weeks. I would carry off all the sleeping powders; one day I put them behind the bed, for I thought they would not taste so badly, and do just as much good.

It did not take more than a minute to get down there when I heard the doctor come in, for I had to see that the medicine was mixed all right. It was great fun peering into the tiny little bottles in his case. I would stand on the ends of my toes and crane my neck to watch him drop the medicine into the tumblers. The other day some Christmas roses were brought in. They looked so tempting I took several bites, and the next day took some more. I felt a little queer, and kept opening my bill. My new mother thought I had something in my throat and gave me some water. The next afternoon she found me on the floor panting, took me to an open window, gave me wine and the attack seemed to pass. We went up to our room, and apparently I was as well as ever when she went down to dinner. After she had gone another attack came on and I am too weak to write any more, and can only warn little birds never to taste of a Christmas rose, as they are said to be deadly poison.

When I went to my room late in the evening no little birdie peeped over the curtain to greet me. I looked on the floor, and there lay my darling Dewey, stiff and cold.

    Caroline Crowninshield Bascom.

THE AMERICAN HAWK OWL

(Surnia ulula caparoch.)

The typical form of this owl (Surnia ulula) is a native of Scandinavia and Northern Russia, and incidentally is a visitor to Western Alaska. We are told by Mr. L. M. Turner, who was stationed by the United States Signal Service in Alaska from 1874 to 1881, that the natives assert that this form is “a resident, and breeds in the vicinity of St. Michaels; also that it is a coast bird, i. e., not going far into the interior, and that it can live a long time in winter without food, as it remains for days in the protection of the holes about the tangled roots of the willow and alder patches.” Its true breeding range, however, is the northern portion of the Eastern hemisphere. It is somewhat larger and lighter in color than the American Hawk Owl.

The bird of our illustration, the American Hawk Owl, is simply a geographical variety of the Old World form, and is a native of northern North America, from Alaska to Newfoundland. This is its usual breeding range, though it migrates in winter to the northern border of the United States, and is an occasional visitor, during severe winters, as far south as Maine and Idaho. It is much more common in the northern portion of its range.

Unlike the other owls, as we usually understand their habits, it may be considered as strictly diurnal, seeking its prey, to a great extent at least, during daylight, usually during the early morning or evening hours. Its principal food consists of the various species of rodents, insects and small birds. Its southward migration is caused by that of its food species, especially that of the lemmings.

It is a tame bird and may be said to know no fear. We are told by Dr. A. K. Fisher that “specimens have been known to return to the same perch after being shot at two or three times. It is a courageous bird, and will defend its nest against all intruders. A male once dashed at Dr. Dall and knocked off his hat as he was climbing to the nest; other similar accounts show that the courage displayed on this occasion was not an individual freak, but a common trait of the species.”

Not alone in its diurnal habits is it like the hawks, but it also resembles some of them in selecting the dead branch of a tall tree in some sightly locality from which to watch for its prey. From this position it will swoop down hawk-like. Like the hawks its flight is swift and yet noiseless, a characteristic which is common to all the owls.

As a rule its note, which is a sharp, shrill cry, is only sounded when flying.

As a nesting site, hollow trees are more frequently chosen. However, nests built of twigs and lined with grass are not infrequent. These are usually placed on the tops of stumps or among the branches of dense cone-bearing trees. The number of eggs varies from three to seven, and are frequently laid long before the ice and snow have disappeared. “The eggs vary from oval to oblong oval in shape, are pure white in color, and somewhat glossy, the shell is smooth and fine-grained.” Incubation begins as soon as the first egg is laid, and both sexes participate in this duty, and occasionally both are found on the nest at the same time. At the nesting season the courage of both sexes is very marked. The male will fight with its talons, and even when wounded will still defend itself. We are told by Mr. Gentry that “calmly and silently it maintains its ground, or springs from a short distance on its foe. So, bravely it dies, without thought of glory and without a chance of fame; for of its kind there are no cowards.”

This bird, like the other species of owls, though possibly not to so great an extent because of its diurnal habits, is looked upon by the Indian tribes as a bird of ill omen and by some tribes all owls are called “death birds.” As a whole, the hawk owls are perhaps more useful to man than any other birds that are not used as food. They cause but little trouble in the poultry yard and are of incalculable value to the farmer because of the large number of small rodents that they destroy.

A BIRD CALENDAR BY THE POETS

January.

This is not the month of singing birds.

“Silently overhead the hen-hawk sails
With watchful, measuring eye, and for his quarry waits.”

    – Lowell.
February.

Sometimes a flock of strange birds descends upon us from the north – the crossbills. There is an old tradition that the red upon their breast was caused by the blood of our Saviour, as they sought to free Him with their bills from the cross.

“And that bird is called the Crossbill,
Covered all with blood so dear,
In the groves of pine it singeth
Songs, like legends, strange to hear.”

    – Longfellow.
March.