Birds and Nature Vol. 9 No. 4 [April 1901]

Mr. Bishop, in “Forest and Stream,” relates the following very interesting account of the strutting of the male Canada Grouse while in captivity. He says, “I will describe as nearly as I can his conduct and attitude while strutting: The tail stands almost erect, the wings are slightly raised from the body and a little drooped, the head is still well up, and the feathers of breast and throat are raised and standing out in regular rows, which press the feathers of the nape and hind neck well back, forming a smooth kind of cape on the back of the neck. This smooth cape contrasts beautifully with the ruffled black and white feathers of the throat and fore breast. The red comb over each eye is enlarged until the two nearly meet over the top of the head. This comb the bird is able to enlarge or reduce at will, and while he is strutting the expanded tail is moved from side to side. The two center feathers do not move, but each side expands and contracts alternately with each step the bird walks. The movement of the tail produces a peculiar rustling, like that of silk. This attitude gives him a very dignified and even conceited air. He tries to attract attention in every possible way, by flying from the ground up on a perch, and back to the ground, making all the noise he can in so doing. Then he will thump some hard substance with his bill. I have had him fly up on my shoulder and thump my collar. At this season he is very bold, and will scarcely keep enough out of the way to avoid being stepped on. He will sometimes sit with his breast almost touching the earth, his feathers erect as in strutting, and making peculiar nodding and circular motions of the head from side to side; he will remain in this position two or three minutes at a time. He is a most beautiful bird, and shows by his actions that he is perfectly aware of the fact.”

There seems to be a diversity of opinion regarding the method followed by this grouse to produce the drumming sound. Mr. Everett Smith, as quoted by Captain Bendire, says, “The Canada Grouse performs its drumming upon the trunk of a standing tree of rather small size, preferably one that is inclined from the perpendicular, and in the following manner: Commencing near the base of the tree selected, the bird flutters upward with somewhat slow progress, but rapidly beating wings, which produce the drumming sound. Having thus ascended fifteen or twenty feet it glides quietly on the wing to the ground and repeats the maneuver.” According to this and other authorities a tree, usually spruce, having a diameter of about six inches and inclining at an angle of about fifteen degrees, is selected. Frequently these trees are used so extensively and for so long a time that the bark on the upper side will be much worn. Other authorities, and among them Indians, who live in the regions frequented by this grouse, claim that the drumming is produced while flying from the branches of a tree to the ground, repeating the operation several times in succession. Another authority describes the drumming of the male as follows, “After strutting back and forth for a few minutes, the male flew straight up, as high as the surrounding trees, about fourteen feet; here he remained stationary an instant, and while on suspended wing did the drumming with the wings, resembling distant thunder, meanwhile dropping down slowly to the spot from where he started, to repeat the same thing over and over again.”

The Canada Grouse is easily domesticated and would make an interesting and amiable bird pet, because of their peculiar habits.

    Seth Mindwell.

DO PLANTS HAVE INSTINCT

Instinct has been defined as a spontaneous impulse, especially in the lower animals – that moves them, without reasoning, toward actions that are essential to their existence, preservation and development. Instinct, imbedded in their organic structure, is the guide of animal life as reason is the guide of rational life. Instinct is said to be incapable of development and progress.

It is instinct that guides the wild goose in his long flight to meet the changing requirements of food and nesting. It is instinct that enables the carrier pigeon, though taken hoodwinked and by night to distant points, to wing his way unerringly homeward. Instinct leads the thrifty squirrel to stock his larder with nuts in anticipation of the period that must pass ere nuts are ripe again, and teaches him to destroy the embryo plant by biting out the germ so that his chestnuts will not sprout and thus be spoiled for food. The same wonderful power enables the bee to build her comb upon the strictest mathematical principles so as to obtain the greatest storage capacity and strength of structure with smallest consumption of wax, and then to store it with one of the most perfect and concentrated of foods. These and many other well-known cases of animal instinct will occur to the reader, but the object of this article is to mention a few phenomena of plant life, whereby they make, what we should designate in human beings, an intelligent adjustment to environment or provision for their future life and development.

As autumn approaches, even before Jack Frost strikes the first rude signal for winter quarters for insect and plant, or the wintry blasts compel the trees to furl sail and scud under bare poles, the forest trees begin to prepare for unfavorable conditions by forming and securely tucking away the bud that is next year to develop into leaf and flower. Before the leaf drops off, a substantial layer of cork is made to close up the pores through which the sap had so freely flowed during the growing season.

My older readers know, of course, that the green color of the leaf is due to the numerous corpuscles of chlorophyll which fill the cells. This same chlorophyll has an important mission to fulfill. These little green bodies are the only real food-making machines in nature. Upon the product of these tiny mills all animate nature depends for food. Their motive power is light, and their raw material the inorganic fluids absorbed by the roots from the soil, and their product is sugars and starches. It will be seen that chlorophyll is one of the most precious, as well as one of the rarest of substances, for while there may appear a great quantity it is superficial, never entering deeply into the substance of the plant.

The trees, by a sort of instinct, shall we say, withdraw their cohorts of green-liveried workers from the front as autumn approaches and deck themselves in the more gaudy but less wholesome colors of declining life. It is after the chlorophyll is withdrawn that the layer of cork is formed. The sturdy oak usually holds his brown leaves until they are whipped off by the wind.

The plants have been using light as a motive power for ages, while man, with his much-vaunted reason, is just beginning to utilize the kindred force, electricity, in arts and sciences. Man makes light draw a few pictures in sombre black and white, while nature flings broadcast landscape and life scenes in varied tints and shades.

In the process of photosynthesis much more energy is received than is necessary to run the machinery, so the plant, with commendable frugality, uses it in laying on what botanists call warming-up colors. If you will notice the peach twigs the next time you take a walk, you will see that the more tender shoots and the buds are decked in rich reds and browns. That this is not for mere ornament may be practically demonstrated by wrapping the bulbs of two similar thermometers, the one with a green leaf, the other with a brown or red leaf, say of begonia or beet. Then put the two in the sunlight and you will soon find a difference of from six to ten degrees in favor of the warming-up color. Speaking of buds, have you examined the horse chestnut bud? It is prepared for the winter in the most substantial manner. The future leaf is first wrapped in a quantity of finest silky wool, then a number of tough light green cases are put on, and this is followed by compact brown scales neatly overlapping, with a complete coating of wax, so that the interior is effectively protected from the cold and moisture. The use of the warming-up colors is quite common with plants.

In the far north the same plant that requires the whole long growing season to mature its seed, will crowd the whole process into a few weeks. It will suspend growth and all other processes, or run them on short time and devote itself almost entirely to producing seed, and the seed itself will have much thicker shell.

I was interested last autumn in the pathetic struggle of a humble little Chenopodium album that had started life late and under unfavorable circumstances. It came up in September under the north piazza near the beaten foot path; close up to the building. I was first attracted by the fact that, though it was not over a foot high, it had bloomed and was making seed at a desperate rate, while its sisters earlier in the season reached several feet in height before blooming. But, alas! for the vanity of the poor little creature, the cold weather during the Christmas holidays came on, and the steam being shut off, the side of the building grew cold and my struggling little friend was frozen, and soon its lifeless remains were the sport and derision of the rude January winds. I pitied the poor little vagabond despite the bad record of her family. Indeed plants, like people, must suffer sometimes because of an evil ancestry. In this case I was touched by the pathos of the situation, and really hoped the pertinacious little wretch might proudly scatter her well-matured seed upon the hard-beaten path as an inspiration to the many boys that passed daily, grumbling because of the hardness of their lot. But the only moral I can now draw is the foolishness of delaying in the right start.

Sometimes the supply of light-energy is so great that the little chlorophyll machines cannot use it in their legitimate work, nor does the plant use it in preparing the warming-up color. Then the disc-shaped corpuscles turn their edges instead of their flat surfaces to the light, or sometimes move deeper down into the leaf. In some cases the leaf itself turns edgewise instead of broadside to the sun.

There are many plants so constituted that they cannot live from year to year in our northern climate, and they must make some provision for preserving their species, and right cunningly do they do this. At a certain period of its growth the potato, for example, puts its starch-making machinery to work on full time, and hurries the starch down below the surface of the ground, and stores it up in what we call a tuber. These tubers have stored in them a number of embryo potato plants, whose lack-luster eyes we see peeping out on all sides. When the time for growth comes, the young plant starts with a reserve-food supply sufficient to keep it growing for some time. We have all noticed, no doubt, how large a plant will grow from a potato, even in a comparatively dark cellar. We must not think that tuber-bearing vines and nut-producing trees are actuated entirely by philanthropic motives. Each nut is the young tree sent forth with his patrimony strapped to his back, ready to make a good start in the world as soon as the favorable time comes.

There are many devices for spending the winter that limits of time and space will prevent me writing about. Many of them more curious than the simple examples I have cited.

Plants are themselves generally unable to move from their fixed positions, so if they are to become prominent in the world they must send out their children – and many and ingenious are their devices for accomplishing this end. Most of my readers are familiar with the parachutes of the silk weed, dandelion and various members of the Compositae family. How they sail through the air. A walk through the autumn forests will make one the unconscious, perhaps unwilling, carrier of numerous Spanish needles, stick tights, burrs and seeds of various plants who have taught their children to steal rides in all sorts of provoking ways. I imagine the wicked old mother laughs as her ugly baby clings to your clothing, sure of a safe ride to a more favorable place for growing. Many plants achieve the same end in a more pleasant way. They produce fruits and berries so luscious that some bird or animal will carry it some distance for the sake of the pulp. Man himself, philanthropist as he is, when he finds that a plant has produced a luscious fruit or palatable seed, will help the distribution and growth, and bring his superior intelligence to the assistance of the plant’s slow instinct to improve its product. A book might be written upon the methods of seed dissemination. In fact, there is a very interesting book upon the subject.

We will just notice briefly the marvelous adaptation of plants to their environment. In the dry plains of Arizona grows a peculiar thick-leaved, stunted, cactus-like plant, suited to withstand the drouth. In the forests of Central South America a great vine climbs to the tops of the tallest trees and there flaunts its gay colors to the breeze. In Damara Land, southwest tropical Africa, upon a small upland section, and nowhere else in the world, grows the marvelous Welwitschia mirabilis, with no real leaves, but with its two cotyledons, persistent and growing to enormous length, living a century and acquiring a great trunk, the flower-stalk growing up from the bare trunk while the two great leaves, if I may so designate them, whip about in the breezes for a century without change, except as they fray out at the ends. These three so dissimilar plants all had a common, not so remote, ancestor, but have grown so unlike in their effort to adapt themselves to their environment, that no casual observer would suspect they were akin.

There is so much to say about the wonderful intelligence displayed by plants in their various activities, that a volume could not do the subject justice. We started with the question, Do plants have instinct? We end with the question, Have they?

    Rowland Watts.

Still winter holds the frozen ground and fast the streams with ice are bound,
There’s many a dreary week to come before the flowers bloom;
Though everything were lost in snow yet Nature’s heart beats warm below
And Spring will build her palace gay on hoary Winter’s tomb.

    – George Gee.

THE DOVEKIE

(Alle alle.)

This little bird, often called the Sea Dove, belongs to the family of auks (Alcidæ). The range of the Dovekie is quite limited. While the marble murrelet, a related bird, is confined to the northern Pacific coast of North America, this little bird frequents only the “coast and islands of the north Atlantic and eastern Arctic Oceans; in North America south in winter to New Jersey.” It breeds only in the northern part of its range. It has been observed as far west as the state of Michigan, but its appearance there was, without doubt, accidental, for it prefers the wild sea coast, where the storm and waves bring to it an abundant supply of food.

It is said to be a rare visitor on the coasts of the British Islands and it has been reported as common as far to the northward as Spitzbergen. In Greenland, where it is commonly found a close companion of the black-billed auk, the native Greenlanders call the Dovekie the Ice Bird, as they consider it a harbinger of ice.

Though the wings of the Dovekie are small in proportion to the size of its body it flies well and rapidly. One writer states that it will move its wings almost as rapidly as will a humming-bird. It is an expert diver and while swimming or resting on the water it will frequently dip its bill into the water. On the land it is much more graceful and walks better than nearly all the other members of the family of auks.

It feeds chiefly on small fish, crustacea and mollusks and will become very fat during a prolonged stormy season when the waves wash up an abundant supply of crabs and fish.

The Dovekie builds a simple nest usually in the crevices of rocky cliffs bordering the sea coast. It lays one or two bluish white eggs which are about the size of the pigeon’s.

Mr. Saunders in speaking of the habits of the Dovekie says: “On the approach of a vessel this bird has a peculiar way of splashing along the surface of the water, as if unable to fly, and then diving through the crest of an advancing wave; it swims rather deep and very much by the stern.”

The Dovekie is sometimes called a little auk to distinguish it from the larger species of the family. The flightless great auk, which at one time was common along the north Atlantic coast, belongs to this family. No living representative of the great auk has been reported since the year 1842. Unable to protect itself by flight it was ruthlessly exterminated by the zeal of hunters and fishermen who sought it for food, for its feathers and for the oil that could be extracted from its flesh.

As flying ever westward Night’s shadows swiftly glide,
The sunrise at the dawning illumes the countryside.
The stars in quick succession in ether melt away,
Until the brightest planet is lost in glowing day.

    – George Gee.

THE SONG SPARROW’S APPEAL

Naturalists tell us that of all creatures below man, the largest animal brain in proportion to the size of the body is found in horses and song-birds. Whatever sense beyond instinct the little creature of whom we write may have had, something, at least, told it that it could obtain help at human hands.

A little sparrow the past season entered the kitchen of one of our country homes, and perched upon the window-sill in evident distress. Its feathers were ruffled, and its head ever and anon turned curiously around and up, as if looking at something out of the house and above the window.

In and out it continued to hop, without intermission, regardless of all offers of food, until the shutters were closed at twilight, and various were the surmises as to the cause of its strange conduct.

Through the course of the following day the same scene was enacted, without any clue appearing as to the cause of its distress.

At length, on the third morning, the mute petition for aid still continuing, one of the family, bethinking herself of the bird’s curious upturning of the head, caught a new idea from it. Perhaps she might have a nest in the ivy that encircled the window, and something might be amiss with its little household.

Going to the second story and looking down, the cause of the trouble was at once manifest. A thick limb of the ivy had become loosened by the wind, and fallen directly across the petitioner’s nest. It was too heavy for the bird to remove, and offered an insuperable difficulty in the way of her getting in to feed her young – now almost lifeless.

The branch was quickly removed, when the mother-bird, pausing only for a brief inspection of her brood, was on the wing in search of food. Her mate soon joined her, and both were busy as quick wings, worked by hearty good will, could make them.

Once only did the mother pause in her work – as if desirous to give expression to her gratitude, she reappeared upon the window-seat, and poured forth a sweet and touching song, as of thankfulness to her benefactors.

She returned three successive seasons, to be noticed and fed at the same spot where her acquaintance and familiarity with man first commenced.

We will add another similar incident, which is also absolutely true.

The correctness is vouched for by Mr. George Babbitt, late captain on Gen. Gresham’s staff, of which he himself was a witness.

During the fierce cannonading in one of the battles of the Civil War, a small bird came and perched upon the shoulder of an artilleryman – the man designated, we believe, as “No. 1,” whose duty it is to force down the charge after the ammunition is put in the gun. The piece was a “Napoleon,” which makes a very loud report, and the exact scene of this occurrence was at a place called “Nickajack.” The bird perched itself upon this man’s shoulder and could not be driven from its position by the violent motions of the gunner. When the piece was discharged, the poor little thing would run its beak and head up under the man’s hair at the back of the neck, and when the report died away would resume its place upon his shoulder. Captain Babbitt took the bird in his hand, but when released it immediately resumed its place on the shoulder of the smoke-begrimed gunner. The singular and touching scene was witnessed by a large number of officers and men. It may be a subject of curious inquiry, what instinct led this bird to thus place itself. Possibly, frightened at the violent commotion caused by the battle, and not knowing how to escape or where to go, some instinct led it to throw itself upon the gunner as a protector. But, whatever the cause, the incident was a most beautiful and pleasing one to all who witnessed it.