  GOLDFINCH GOLDFINCH BIRD NEIGHBORS. AN INTRODUCTORY ACQUAINTANCE WITH ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY BIRDS COMMONLY FOUND IN THE GARDENS, MEADOWS, AND WOODS ABOUT OUR HOMES BY NELTJE BLANCHAN WITH INTRODUCTION BY JOHN BURROUGHS WITH MANY PHOTOGRAPHIC ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR AND IN BLACK AND WHITE logo GARDEN CITY NEW YORK DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 1923 COPYRIGHT, 1904, 1922, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1897, BY DOUBLEDAY & MCCLURE COMPANY COLOURED PLATES COPYRIGHTED, 1897, BY THE NATURE STUDY PUBLISHING COMPANY CHICAGO, ILL. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES AT THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y. TABLE OF CONTENTS
PREFACE Not to have so much as a bowing acquaintance with the birds that nest in our gardens or under the very eaves of our houses; that haunt our wood-piles; keep our fruit-trees free from slugs; waken us with their songs, and enliven our walks along the roadside and through the woods, seems to be, at least, a breach of etiquette toward some of our most kindly disposed neighbors. Birds of prey, game and water birds are not included in the book. The following pages are intended to be nothing more than a familiar introduction to the birds that live near us. Even in the principal park of a great city like New York, a bird-lover has found more than one hundred and thirty species; as many, probably, as could be discovered in the same sized territory anywhere. The plan of the book is not a scientific one, if the term scientific is understood to mean technical and anatomical. The purpose of the writer is to give, in a popular and accessible form, knowledge which is accurate and reliable about the life of our common birds. This knowledge has not been collected from the stuffed carcasses of birds in museums, but gleaned afield. In a word, these short narrative descriptions treat of the bird's characteristics of size, color, and flight; its peculiarities of instinct and temperament; its nest and home life; its choice of food; its songs; and of the season in which we may expect it to play its part in the great panorama Nature unfolds with faithful precision year after year. They are an attempt to make the bird so live before the reader that, when seen out of doors, its recognition shall be instant and cordial, like that given to a friend. The coloring described in this book is sometimes more vivid than that found in the works of some learned authorities whose conflicting testimony is often sadly bewildering to the novice. In different parts of the country, and at different seasons of the year, the plumage of some birds undergoes many changes. The reader must remember, therefore, that the specimens examined and described were not, as before stated, the faded ones in our museums, but live birds in their fresh, spring plumage, studied afield. The birds have been classed into color groups, in the belief that this method, more than any other will make identification most easy. The color of the bird is the first, and often the only, characteristic noticed. But they have also been classified according to the localities for which they show decided preferences and in which they are most likely to be found. Again, they have been grouped according to the season when they may be expected. In the brief paragraphs that deal with groups of birds separated into the various families represented in the book, the characteristics and traits of each clan are clearly emphasized. By these several aids it is believed the merest novice will be able to quickly identify any bird neighbor that is neither local nor rare. To the uninitiated or uninterested observer, all small, dull-colored birds are "common sparrows." The closer scrutiny of the trained eye quickly differentiates, and picks out not only the Song, the Canada, and the Fox Sparrows, but finds a dozen other familiar friends where one who "has eyes and sees not" does not even suspect their presence. Ruskin says: "The more I think of it, I find this conclusion more impressed upon me, that the greatest thing a human soul ever does in this world is to see something. Hundreds of people can talk for one who can think, but thousands can think for one who can see. To see clearly is poetry, prophecy, and religion—all in one." While the author is indebted to all the time-honored standard authorities, and to many ornithologists of the present day—too many for individual mention—it is to Mr. John Burroughs her deepest debt is due. To this clear-visioned prophet, who has opened the blind eyes of thousands to the delights that Nature holds within our easy reach, she would gratefully acknowledge many obligations; first of all, for the plan on which "Bird Neighbors" is arranged; next, for his patient kindness in reading and annotating the manuscript of the book; and, not least, for the inspiration of his perennially charming writings that are so largely responsible for the ready-made audience now awaiting writers on out-of-door topics. • • • • • It is hoped that the illustrations in this edition of "Bird Neighbors" will do much to add to the pleasure and profit of the reader. Through the courtesy of the National Association of Audubon Societies, the pictures painted by artists who are specialists in bird portraiture embellish this book. Each portrait has been examined and corrected when necessary by an authority. The birds are pictured as they are in life, each according to its own habit of existence. The author takes this opportunity to express her appreciation of the work the National Association of Audubon Societies has done and is doing to prevent the slaughter of birds in all parts of the United States, to develop bird sanctuaries and inaugurate protective legislation. Indeed to it, more than to all other agencies combined, is due the credit of eliminating so much of the Prussian like cruelty toward birds that once characterized American treatment of them, from the rising generation. NELTJE BLANCHAN. THE NATURE LIBRARY By JOHN BURROUGHS I do not propose in these introductory remarks to this Nature Library to discuss the merits or the character of the separate volumes further than to say that they are all by competent hands and, so far as I can judge, entirely reliable. While accurate and scientific, I have found them very readable. The treatment is popular without being sensational. This library is free from the scientific dry rot on the one hand and from the florid and misleading romanticism of much recent nature writing on the other. It is a safe guide to the world of animal and plant life that lies about us. And that is all the wise reader wants. He should want to explore this world for himself. Indeed, nature-study, as it appeals to us in books, fails of its chief end if it does not send us to nature itself. What we want is not the mere facts about the flowers or the animals—we want through them to add to the resources of our lives; and I know of nothing better calculated to do this than the study of nature at first hand. To add to the resources of one's life—think how much that means! To add to those things that make us more at home in the world; that help guard us against ennui and stagnation; that invest the country with new interest and enticement; that make every walk in the fields or woods an excursion into a land of unexhausted treasures; that make the returning seasons fill us with expectation and delight; that make every rod of ground like the page of a book in which new and strange things may be read; in short, those things that help keep us fresh and sane and young, and make us immune to the strife and fever of the world. The main thing is to feel an interest in Nature—an interest that leads to a loving unconscious study of her. Not entirely a scientific interest, but a human interest as well; science upon the one hand and an appreciation of the mystery, the beauty, and the bounty of life upon the other. The child feels a human interest in nature: when the schoolgirls come to school with their hands full of wild flowers, or the boys make excursions to the woods in May for wintergreens, or black birch, or crinkle root, they are all moved by an interest that is old and deep-seated in the race. Now, if to this interest and curiosity we can add a little science, just enough to guide them, we lift these feelings to another plane and give them a longer lease of life. The boy will not be so likely to rob birds' nests after the savage in him has been humanized by a touch of real knowledge and he has come to look upon the bird as something worthy of naming and studying and that has its place in the economy of the fields and woods. A touch of real knowledge—how humanizing and elevating it is! Simply to learn that all the plants have been studied and named, even the humblest; that they all have vital relations with one another—family ties; that the great biological laws are operative in them also; that the deep, mysterious principle of variation, which is at the bottom of Darwin's theory of the origin of the species, is working in the lowliest plant we tread upon; to know that the chain of cause and effect runs through the whole organic world, binding together its remotest parts; that everywhere is plan, development, evolution—to know these and kindred things—a few of the fundamentals of science—is a joy to the spirit and a light to the mind. Science in the world is like the surveyor and the engineer in a new country; it opens up highways for the mind; it bridges the chasms and marshes; it gives us dominion over the wild; it brings order out of chaos. What a maze, what a tangle the world is till we come to look upon it with the clews and solutions in mind which science affords! The heavens seem a haphazard spatter of stars, the earth a wild jumble of plants, and animals, and blind forces all struggling with one another—confusion, contradiction, failure everywhere. And so it was to the early men, and so it still is to those who have not the light of science, but so it need not remain to the child born into the world to-day. The great mysteries of life and death, of final causes and ultimate ends, still remain and will continue, but nature now, compared with the nature of a few centuries ago, is like a land subdued and peopled and cultivated compared with a pathless wilderness. And yet I would not in this connection, when considering the field of natural history, lay too much stress upon the scientific aspects of the question. To the real nature-lover the bird in the bush is worth much more than the bird in the hand, because the nature-lover is not after a specimen: he is after a living fact; he is after a new joy in life. It is an important part, but by no means the main part of what ornithology holds for us, to be able to name every bird on sight or call. To love the bird, to appreciate its place in the landscape and in the season, to relate it to your daily life, to divine its character, to know it emotionally in your heart—that is much more. To know the birds as the sportsman knows his game; to experience the same thrill, purged of all thoughts of slaughter; to make their songs music in your life—this is indeed something to be desired. The same with botany. I regard its class-room uses as very slight. The educational value of the technical part is almost nil. But the humanizing value of a love of the flowers, the hygienic value of a walk in their haunts, the Æsthetic value of the observation of their forms and tints—these are all vital. The scientific value which attaches to your knowledge of the names of their parts or of their families—what is that? Their habits are interesting; their means of fertilization are interesting; the part insects play in their lives—the honey-yielders, the pollen-yielders, their means of scattering their seeds, and so forth—all are interesting. To know their habitats and seasons; to have associations with them when you go fishing; to land your trout in a bed of bee-palm or jewel-weed; to pluck the linnÆa in the moss on the Adirondack mountain you are climbing; to gather pond-lilies from a boat with your friend; to pluck the arbutus on the first balmy day of April; to see the scarlet lobelia lighting up a dark nook by the stream as you row by in August; to walk or drive past vast acres of purple loosestrife, looking like a lake or sea of color—this is botany with something back of it, and the only place to learn it is where it grows. The botany that trails the days and the season and the woods and the fields with it—that is the kind that has educational value in it. I confess I have not much sympathy with the laboratory study of nature, except for economic purposes. Nature under the dissecting knife and the microscope yields important secrets to the students of biology, but the unprofessional students want but little of all this. I know a young woman who took a post-graduate course in biology at a noted summer school, and the one thing she learned was that certain bacilli were found only in the aqueous humor of the eyes of white mice. The world is full of curious facts like that, that have no human interest or educational value whatever. If one could number all the trees of the forest and all the leaves upon the trees, what would it profit him? To know the different kinds of trees when you see them, and the function of the leaves upon them—that were more worth while. I have read studies of leaves that were just as profitless as to know their numbers. I have heard discourses upon the changes in the plumage of certain water-fowl from youth to age, and from one moult to another, that were as profitless and wearisome as studying the variations of the leaves or their numbers. I hardly know why I am impatient when people come to me with their hands full of different leaves and ask me what tree is this from, and this, and this? If your business is not with trees, if you live in the city and care mainly for city things, why bother about the trees, unless for the pleasure of it during your summer excursions into the country; and if it affords you pleasure, you will not want any one to tell you: you will want to identify the trees themselves. The same with the birds. The main profit of this branch of natural history is in the pursuit—not in the name, but in the bird. It is the chase that allures the sportsman, and it is the chase that profits the nature-student. Did you ever receive a gift of brook-trout by express? How pitiful they look—stale fish only! But the trout you brought in at night after threading for miles the mountain stream: its voice all day in your ears; its sparkle all day in your eyes; the love of its beauty and purity all day in your heart; wading through bee-balm or jewel-weed; skirting wild pastures; starting the grouse or the woodcock with their young; surprising bird and beast at their home occupations—these were trout with a flavor. Whatever opens up new doors or windows for us into the world about us, whatever widens the field of our interests and sympathies, has some sort of value—moral, intellectual, or Æsthetic. But much of the so-called nature-study opens no new doors or windows; it affords no mental satisfaction, or illumination, or Æsthetic pleasure; it is mainly pottering with dry, unimportant facts and details. Do you know the edelweiss of our own matchless arbutus after you have merely analyzed and classified them? No more than you know a man after having weighed and measured him. The function of things is always interesting. What do they do? How do they pay their way in the rigid economy of nature? How do they survive? How does the bulb of the common fawn-lily[1] get deeper and deeper into the ground each year? Why does the wild ginger hide its blossom when nearly all other plants flaunt theirs? Why are the plants of the common mouse-ear (antennaria) [2] always in groups, one sex here, another there, as if prohibited from mingling by some moral code in nature? Why do nearly all our trees have a twist to the right or the left—hard woods one way, and soft woods the other? Why do the roots of trees flow through the ground like "runnels of molten metal," often separating and uniting again while the branches are thrust out in right lines or curves? Why is our common yellow birch more often than any other tree planted upon a rock? Why do oaks or chestnuts so often spring up where a pine or hemlock forest has been cleared away? Why does lightning so commonly strike a hemlock tree or a pine or an oak, and rarely or never a beech? Why does the bolt sometimes scatter the tree about, and at others only plow a channel down its trunk? Why does the bumblebee complain so loudly when working upon certain flowers? Why does the honey-bee lose the sting when it stings a person, while the wasp, the hornet, and the bumblebee do not? How does the chimney-swallow get the twigs it builds its nest with? From what does the hornet make its paper? One of Herbert Spencer's questions was, Why do animals and birds of prey have their eyes in front, and others, as sheep and domestic fowl, on the side of the head? Man, then, by the position of his eyes belongs to the predaceous animals. I have never been greatly interested in spiders, but I have always wanted to know how a certain spider managed to stretch her cable squarely across the road in the woods about my height from the ground? Why are mud turtles so wild? Why is the excrement of the young of some birds carried away by the parents, while with others it is voided from the nest? Among certain of our birds the family relation, more or less marked, is kept up a long time after the young have left the nest. One sees the parent birds and the young going about in loose flocks often till late into the fall. Of what birds is this true? The questions I have suggested are not important; they do not hold the key to any great storehouse of natural knowledge. Their only value is as a means to quicken the powers of observation. We see vaguely, diffusely. Concentrate the attention—not to the extent of missing total effects, as the specialist so often does, but for the purpose of reading correctly the play of life that is constantly going about us. Nature's book is like any other book: you must open the covers; you must fix your eyes upon the text; you must get into the spirit of it. When you have read one sentence correctly you are so much the better prepared to read the next one. A world of nature about us that we are quite apt to be oblivious to, except as it results in our annoyance, is the insect world. We do not take an intelligent interest in the ants, or the bees, or the moths, or the butterflies, yet here is a field of observation that will amply repay one. One day in a great city I saw a butterfly calmly winging its way high above the crowded street. I knew it was the monarch (Anosia plexippus), probably the greatest traveler of all our butterflies. It is quite certain that they migrate to the South in the fall, and that many return in the spring. I learn from Mr. Holland's Butterfly Book in this library that they have even crossed both oceans—of course, by catching a ride on vessels—and are now found in Australia and in the Philippines, and they have been collected in England. Have you not seen its chrysalis suspended from some weed or bush, looking like the trunk from some tiny warrior encased in pale-green armor, riveted with gold-headed rivets, a broad, heavy shield over the abdomen, and plate upon plate over the shoulders and back? It is a milkweed butterfly, and will serve as a good introduction to this new world of winged life. Early last spring I found upon the window of my cabin in the woods a butterfly that had evidently hybernated in some snug crack or corner of the building. This was the mourning cloak, with me the first vernal butterfly. When one sees this butterfly dancing through the open sunny woods in March or early April he may know spring has really come and that the first hepatica will soon open its blue eye. Mr. Howard's Insect Book ought to start many of its readers to observing flies and bees and prying into their life-histories, many of which are as yet not fully known. Not a farm-boy but knows of the big fat grubs in cows' backs in the spring. It was always a mystery to me how they got there. Now it is known that the creature has traveled all the way from the cow's stomach, where the egg of its parent—the bot-fly—was hatched, making its way slowly "through the connective tissues of the cow, between the skin and the flesh, penetrating gradually along the neck, and ultimately reaching a point beneath the skin on the back of the animal." We have only to look into nature a little more closely and intently, to whet our powers of observation by the use of such books as this Nature Library contains, to add vastly to our pleasure in and our knowledge of the world that lies about us. INTRODUCTION I write these few introductory sentences to this volume only to second so worthy an attempt to quicken and enlarge the general interest in our birds. The book itself is merely an introduction, and is only designed to place a few clews in the reader's hands which he himself or herself is to follow up. I can say that it is reliable and is written in a vivacious strain and by a real bird lover, and should prove a help and a stimulus to any one who seeks by the aid of its pages to become better acquainted with our songsters. The pictures, with a few exceptions, are remarkably good and accurate, and these, with the various grouping of the birds according to color, season, habitat, etc., ought to render the identification of the birds, with no other weapon than an opera glass, an easy matter. When I began the study of the birds I had access to a copy of Audubon, which greatly stimulated my interest in the pursuit, but I did not have the opera glass, and I could not take Audubon with me on my walks, as the reader may this volume, and he will find these colored plates quite as helpful as those of Audubon or Wilson. But you do not want to make out your bird the first time; the book or your friend must not make the problem too easy for you. You must go again and again, and see and hear your bird under varying conditions and get a good hold of several of its characteristic traits. Things easily learned are apt to be easily forgotten. Some ladies, beginning the study of birds, once wrote to me, asking if I would not please come and help them, and set them right about certain birds in dispute. I replied that that would be getting their knowledge too easily; that what I and any one else told them they would be very apt to forget, but that the things they found out themselves they would always remember. We must in a way earn what we have or keep. Only thus does it become ours, a real part of us. Not very long afterward I had the pleasure of walking with one of the ladies, and I found her eye and ear quite as sharp as my own, and that she was in a fair way to conquer the bird kingdom without any outside help. She said that the groves and fields, through which she used to walk with only a languid interest, were now completely transformed to her and afforded her the keenest pleasure; a whole new world of interest had been disclosed to her; she felt as if she was constantly on the eve of some new discovery; the next turn in the path might reveal to her a new warbler or a new vireo. I remember the thrill she seemed to experience when I called her attention to a purple finch singing in the tree-tops in front of her house, a rare visitant she had not before heard. The thrill would of course have been greater had she identified the bird without my aid. One would rather bag one's own game, whether it be with a bullet or an eyebeam. The experience of this lady is the experience of all in whom is kindled this bird enthusiasm. A new interest is added to life; one more resource against ennui and stagnation. If you have only a city yard with a few sickly trees in it, you will find great delight in noting the numerous stragglers from the great army of spring and autumn migrants that find their way there. If you live in the country, it is as if new eyes and new ears were given you, with a correspondingly increased capacity for rural enjoyment. The birds link themselves to your memory of seasons and places, so that a song, a call, a gleam of color, set going a sequence of delightful reminiscences in your mind. When a solitary great Carolina wren came one August day and took up its abode near me and sang and called and warbled as I had heard it long before on the Potomac, how it brought the old days, the old scenes back again, and made me for the moment younger by all those years! A few seasons ago I feared the tribe of bluebirds were on the verge of extinction from the enormous number of them that perished from cold and hunger in the South in the winter of '94. For two summers not a blue wing, not a blue warble. I seemed to miss something kindred and precious from my environment—the visible embodiment of the tender sky and the wistful soil. What a loss, I said, to the coming generations of dwellers in the country—no bluebird in the spring! What will the farm-boy date from? But the fear was groundless: the birds are regaining their lost ground; broods of young blue-coats are again seen drifting from stake to stake or from mullen-stalk to mullen-stalk about the fields in summer, and our April air will doubtless again be warmed and thrilled by this lovely harbinger of spring. JOHN BURROUGHS. August 17, 07. LIST OF COLOURED PLATES
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