Birds and Nature Vol. 11 No. 3 [March 1902]

What the feathers women wear
Cost the world? For birds must die;
Not a clime where they may fly
Safely through their native air;
Slaughter meets them everywhere.
Scorned be hands that touch such spoil!
Let women pity, and recoil
From traffic, barbarous and grave,
And quickly strive the birds to save.

    – George Klingle.

A CARGO OF STOWAWAYS

“Birds of ocean and of air
Hither in a troop repair.”

    – Aristophanes’ “The Birds.”
Passing out of the golden sunrise into a world of blue sky and the blue waters of Lake Huron, we regretfully assured ourselves that save for the shadowy gray and white gulls that followed in the wake of our steamer in search of a breakfast, there would be for us no bird reviews so dear to the heart of the ornithologist in a strange country, or not at least until we should have reached the far distant islands in the picturesque River Sault Ste. Mary, so with the inertia of the blank waters about us we prepared to be content, but in this instance, as in many others, we were to learn that conclusions are by no means conclusive, and it was with joy that we could exclaim with Aristophanes:

“But hark! the rushing sound of rushing wings
Approaches us,”

when before our delighted and surprised eyes alighted a bronze grackle, most majestic of blackbirds, who stepped off across the deck with all of the pride of a lately promoted major, doubtless glad enough to find himself on solid footing after the heavy gale of the past night, which has blown him into unknown seas. His rich metallic plumage gleamed in the sunlight as he eyed us inquisitively, the while walking calmly about us picking up the insects of which we seemed to have an abundant supply aboard. But where is the little wife to whom he was so devoted, and whose labors of incubation he so materially assisted, taking his “turn” on the nest with clock-like regularity? But also he shared with her their rich song notes which so delight us during the courting season. But our grackle is by no means the only stowaway we were to carry north with us, for all at once the air was resonant with excited “chips” and “zeeps” as the different winged passengers arrived. At least half a dozen pine warblers contentedly flitted onto the deck, filling the air with their sweet calls, and dancing about like little balls of yellow feathers. And to delight beyond anything the heart of a bird enthusiast, far more indeed than can any result of gun, camera or opera glass, was the fact that exhaustion and hunger had entirely obliterated from these birds every trace of their dread of the human kind, and they associated with us as fearlessly as tho’ to the manor born. Particularly was this true of the pine warblers who hopped about us on the hatchways like chickens, one venturesome little fellow even becoming so familiar as to alight on the toe of my slipper, and quietly inspect its steel embroidery with silent curiosity, occasionally glancing up at me out of his round, bright eyes as confidentially as though he was a connoisseur in footwear. Another warbler lit on the corner of a book that one of the passengers was holding in her hand. This rare friendliness made us feel that we had not only the bird in the hand, but also the two in the bush, with still a balance in our favor, for we could study their movements as intimately as we desired, but I could hardly keep from rubbing my eyes in amazement, fearing “’twas but a dream,” or that my brain has been turned, as topsy turvy this morning as was my stomach the night before. But the experience was certainly uniquely delightful to say the least. After all of these years of careful peeking and prying to secure a moment’s observation of some of these birds, to have them now flitting about me, at my very feet as it were, in this familiar and friendly fashion was indeed a rare treat. It is Darwin who has said that he had come to the conclusion that the wildness of birds with regard to man is a particular instinct directed against him, and not dependent on any general degree of caution arising from other sources of danger. Birds in general, however, have had reason to become timid from their experience of the human biped, and hold with Eben Holden that “Men are the most terrible of all critters, an’ the meanest. They’re the only critters that kill fer fun,” and it has become instinctive for them to act accordingly.

However, we had not yet arrived at the end of our experience with the sociable bird world, for it seemed that we were to carry a full cargo of stowaways, for the next arrivals were six or seven juncos savoring of frost and wintry weather, notwithstanding the heat of the autumnal sun. Miss Merriam has quaintly styled these busy little birds: “Gray robed monks and nuns,” though their character does not cleverly carry out that conception, for they are a pugnacious lot of feathers and blood, and there were pitch battles going on at every hatch corner, the juncos playing the part of the aggressor every time, turning and conspicuously flaunting their stylish white tail markings in the face of their opponents. The next advent was that of a tiny house wren, who seemed to have had a good deal of his natural belligerency blown out of him, and was content to make a peaceful breakfast on the Canada soldiers that were swarming about. Wrens are noticeable for the interest that they take in human belongings, and love to make their home among them. At Marquette I was shown a nest built in an overshoe inadvertently left in the crotch of an apple tree, and which, I am glad to report, the owner left undisturbed when she learned by whom it was pre-empted. I thought of our little stowaway when I saw the nest and wondered how much he could have told me of its construction. Some one has mentioned a nest built in an old coat sleeve, and Audubon tells us of a pair that nested in his parlor, paying him rent in song music. The wren has also received much “honorable mention” in history, Aristotle being the first, I believe, to call him the King of Birds, possibly because of the legend that tells us that to gain his sovereignty in a trial of flight he concealed himself on the back of an eagle who was one of the contestants, and after that bird of mighty wing power had reached his limit the wren, arising from his seat among the eagle’s feathers, easily flew much higher, thus gaining the race and title. Perhaps not the first time that high places have been arrived at through duplicity. But, in justice to his species, mention should be made of the myth that asserts that in ye golden time the wren was the only bird brave enough to enter heaven and bring down fire to earth for the benefit of the mortals. In this philanthropical work he scorched off his feathers, so the other birds made a donation party and each contributed some spare feathers to the singed benefactor (but we notice that their generosity, like that of some others, was confined to donating their plainest apparel), all but the owl, who refused to part with a single quill, but who for his stinginess was at once ostracised from good society, and forced to make his appearance only after nightfall, when the “best people” were not in evidence.

Of the two other members of the warbler family, who traveled north with us singly and alone, one was a Blackburnian warbler, silent and dull of plumage as befitted the season, and the other a dainty black-throated blue warbler, one of the most dressy and gentlemanly appearing birds of the warbler species. In his steely blue coat, black stock and evening vest and wide expanse of white shirt front, he looks as though fully attired for a swell reception. His two white wing patches closely resemble handkerchiefs peeping from side pockets, completing the illusion. He was rather more reserved in his movements than the gang of noisy associates, and picked daintily at the flies as befits well-bred superiority. But he, like the rest, showed no apparent distrust of us, neither did some newly arrived white-throated sparrows, who joined in the general scramble for insects. But not now do we hear their cheerful “I-have-got-plenty-to-eat-but-no-che-eze,” as Dr. Brewer interprets their song. I am sure that they could have had cheese or anything else they desired on board the Castalia, for on hospitable thoughts intent I secured some crumbs from the table, but my feathered fellow travelers would have none of me, passing my humble offerings by in disdain. There was but one death on the passage, and that was a white-eyed vireo, who either succumbed to exhaustion or struck the rigging too violently in boarding the steamer.

But birds were not the only winged creatures who took passage with us. For several hours a continuous stream of honey bees and yellow-jackets flew exhausted upon the deck, only to become food for the bee-eating passengers. The few who escaped and revived sufficiently to crawl up onto the cabin were so fatigued that one could stroke them gently without provoking any antagonism. Wafted across the blue waters by adverse winds came also myriads of common yellow butterflies, tossing in the gentle breeze like handfuls of shining buttercups, and great troops of beautiful milkweed butterflies (Anosia plexippus), their brilliant colors gleaming in the sunlight in all the richness of ebony and crimson. They hovered about the steamer like gorgeous blossoms cut from the parent stalk and left poised in mid air at the mercy of treacherous gales. Funny little atoms of vanity and brightness, whose homes are among the gardens of peace and sunshine, what business had they here in this region of seething waters and tempestuous winds?

We looked to have our feathered friends leave us upon the first appearance of land, but, on the contrary, they remained with us all of the afternoon, as we sailed in and out among the picturesque islands of the “Soo” river, and it was not until toward their bed-time and the setting of the sun that they gradually began to disappear; the last to leave, and that was at dusk, was the black-throated blue warbler. Just before reaching the lock a couple of juncos perched on the rail and engaged in what seemed to us a very heated discussion, until finally one of them, with a chip of command, flew to the shore, the other following in a moment with a note of protest. The latter’s idea doubtless was to remain with a good thing in hand rather than venture into pastures new of unknown possibilities.

On our return trip, the weather being calm, no birds were:

“Buffeted and baffled, with the gusty gale,”

hence our only stowaways were a couple of yellow warblers, who spent most of their time in one of the offices catching flies on the wall, and we were obliged to resort to other resources for our entertainment, and found at least artistic as well as botanical enjoyment in looking at the great bunches of golden rod, yellow cone flowers and pale primroses, a combination of yellows that formed an exquisite blend, and which covered the embankment of the great willow dike on St. Clair Flats, that seems fast running into a state of dilapidation and decay. But it is a delightful sail down the willow-bordered lane of blue water, a stray bit of Venice with Venice left out, as it were, and where no angry waters toss the brave mariner and consequently seasick traveler across mighty billows, a performance which is a by no means charming accessory to one’s erstwhile home on the bounding deep.

    Alberta A. Field.

THE HAIRY WOODPECKER

(Dryobates villosus.)

The woodpeckers on trunk of gnarled trees
Tap their quick drum-beats with their horny beaks.

    – Isaac McLellan, “Nature’s Invitation.”
The geographical and the breeding ranges of the Hairy Woodpecker are practically the same. These include eastern North America from the southern provinces of Canada southward to the States bordering the Gulf of Mexico and those of the southeastern United States bordering the Atlantic Ocean. In these States it is occasionally found during the winter season. Westward its range extends to the Rocky Mountains. It is, however, most abundant in the forest areas of the Northern and Middle States, where, as it is a hardy bird and not greatly affected by extreme cold, it is generally a constant resident. Though occasionally found in old orchards, its choice feeding grounds are the timbered regions of river banks and other bodies of water. Here and in the trees at the outer borders of forests it seeks its food by itself, for it has an unsocial disposition, and it is seldom that more than a pair are seen together. “It does not live in harmony with smaller species of its own kind, and drives them away when they encroach on its feeding grounds, being exceedingly greedy in disposition and always hungry.” It also is not adverse to a home in the deeper forests and may even frequent clumps of trees in the open.

The Hairy Woodpecker is one of the most useful and valuable friends of human interests. Not only does it feed upon the larvæ that burrow in the wood and bark of our forest and orchard trees, but also upon beetles and other insects. It is only in the winter season, when its natural food is not readily obtained, that it gathers seeds and fruits. It never attacks a sound tree for any purpose, and the loss caused by the amount of useful grain destroyed is greatly overbalanced by the good that it does in the destruction of noxious insects.

The value of this shy and retiring bird is well illustrated by Mr. V. A. Alderson, who says in the “Oologist” (July, 1890): “Last summer potato bugs covered every patch of potatoes in Marathon County, Wisconsin. One of my friends here found his patch an exception, and, therefore, took pains to find out the reason, and observed a Hairy Woodpecker making frequent visits to the potato field and going from there to a large pine stub a little distance away. After observing this for about six weeks, he made a visit to the pine stub, and found, on inspection, a large hole in its side, almost fifteen feet up. He took his ax and cut down the stub, split it open, and found inside over two bushels of bugs. All had their heads off and bodies intact. Now, why did the Woodpecker carry the bugs whole to the tree and only bite off and eat the heads, which could have been done in the open field?”

The Hairy Woodpecker has no leisure moments. He is always active and

The little tap of busy bill
The signal of his work and skill.

is ever present

To rid the soil of every foe,
To guard the leafy trees.

The movements of this Woodpecker are interesting, for, like its sister species, it moves with equal facility either upwards or downwards, sidewise or backwards upon a tree trunk. From time to time it will stop and seem to listen, and, finally bracing itself with the stiff feathers of its spiney tail, it will deliver powerful blows with its chisel-like bill at some point that will be likely to furnish a dainty morsel of food. There is little doubt that its sense of hearing is very acute and that it can detect the slightest movement of an insect in the bark or wood of a tree that to other animals would be imperceptible.

The flight of the Hairy Woodpecker is like that of the other species of its group. It is wavering and undulating, seldom protracted and usually consisting of a number of short vibrations of the wings. When alighting, they grasp the object with both feet simultaneously. This Woodpecker is the earliest of all the family to build its nest. Mating begins in the latter part of March, and at this time the birds are exceedingly noisy. The male when not feeding will resort to some dead limb and vigorously drum and “the louder the noise produced, the more satisfactory it appears to be to the performer.”

Regarding the building of the nest, Major Bendire says: “Both sexes take part in the labor, and it is really wonderful how neat and smooth an excavation these birds can make with their chisel-shaped bills in a comparatively short time. The entrance hole is round, as if made with an auger, about two inches in diameter, and just large enough to admit the body of the bird; the edges are nicely beveled, the inside is equally smooth, and the cavity is gradually enlarged toward the bottom. The entrance hole, which is not unfrequently placed under a limb for protection from the weather, generally runs in straight through the solid wood for about three inches, and then downward from ten to eighteen inches, and some of the finer chips are allowed to remain on the bottom of the cavity, in which the eggs are deposited. Both dead and living trees are selected for nesting sites, generally the former. When living trees are chosen, the inner core, or heart of the tree, is usually more or less decayed. These nesting sites are nearly always selected with such good judgment that such obstacles as hard knots are rarely encountered; should this occur, the site is abandoned and a fresh one selected.” The male, after the work is completed, will often excavate one or more holes in the same tree in order that he may have a resting place at night near to his mate.

A VARICOLORED FROG

An amateur naturalist, amid the ordinary organic forms that he may encounter in his own country, is often grievously puzzled at curious specimens of animal life that may be brought under his attention. But amid the illimitable animal life of the wild region of the upper Orinoco even the most expert and learned naturalist will often find himself “stumped” by the many unusual and hitherto undiscovered things that occasionally beset his pathway.

Among the many curious and quaint animal specimens encountered by the writer in this region was an arboreal frog of startlingly beautiful colorings. This little creature rested upon a stomach of orange flame hue, while the head and back were marked with velvet purple tints, and a narrow snow-white stripe extended from the point of his nose to the tip of a tiny tail. With such brilliant colorings it is easily and distinctly observed, but the snakes, weasels and other arch enemies of the amphibians have no relish for this handsome specimen. Its weapon of defense against its would-be enemies is a sweat venom of a most nauseous odor, which it emits when any one approaches it. This venom is common among the toads, and the fact is referred to by Juvenal (Dryden’s translation) of the lady “who squeezed a toad into her husband’s wine.” It is probable that the beautiful frog of so many glaring colors would have long since been exterminated by its many enemies and persecutors but for the poisonous and nauseous fluid ejected from its glands.

    Andrew James Miller.

WAS IT REASON OR INSTINCT?

Old Boney is a large shaggy dog of a deep tan color, and a general favorite among the people in the quarter of the city in which he lives, while he is honored and respected by every member of the canine race for miles around. Especially are the little children fond of him; and it seems to be as much a pastime for him as for his young playmates to carry the boys and girls on his broad back, their little, chubby hands buried in his long, matted hair in their half-frightened efforts to keep from slipping off and tumbling upon the ground.

His owner’s daughter, a young girl just entering her teens, attends the high school, about three blocks from her home, which is reached by rather a circuitous route. Boney had often accompanied his young mistress to the school and was familiar with the way thither as well as with the main entrance and winding stairway of the building.

It was in the showery month of April, and Etta had repeatedly neglected to wear her rubbers when she started for school in the morning, a fault for which she had often been reprimanded.

Now it happened one warm afternoon that a copious shower came down in due April style. The door leading from the dining room out upon the veranda was wide ajar, and Etta’s mother, looking out, saw her daughter’s rubbers upon the veranda floor near the rug where they were usually deposited when not in use. “There,” exclaimed the mother, “that child has gone again without her rubbers and will come home with wet feet.”

This sharp remark aroused the attention of old Boney, for he got up from his prone condition on the rug, looked at the speaker, sniffed at the rubbers and lay down again. At this juncture Etta’s father quietly picked up the rubbers, carried them over to the school building and handed them to his daughter, whom he met at the upper landing of the stairway. This had been done more than once, Boney generally lying upon the veranda floor where he could easily hear and see what was being done on such occasions, and he had often followed his master and stood by when father and daughter met at the school building.

Now comes the interesting part of our story. A drenching shower came down about three o’clock one afternoon and Etta had, as usual, neglected to take her needed footwear. It happened this time that none of the family was at home. Boney, however, was keeping house in his accustomed place on the rug. Now, what do our readers think the noble animal did. Why, he just picked up both of the rubbers, carried them in his mouth through the driving rain to the school building, up the winding stairway and laid them upon the landing. As if this were not enough, he lay down and faithfully watched his charge till Etta made her appearance, when he politely dropped her property at her feet.

Thereafter Etta’s father was relieved of this service, Boney regularly attending to the business himself, and, what is more wonderful still, he never attempted to discharge his duty on a pleasant day.

Query. Was this reason or instinct? If the latter, what is instinct?

    L. P. Venen.

OPAL