In Bird Land :: VIII. NEST-HUNTING.

VIII. NEST-HUNTING.

Nothing in Nature is more pregnant with suggestion than the nest of a bird. The story of one of these deftly woven dwellings in the woods, if fully written, might prove almost as weird and romantic as the history of a castle on the Rhine. What madrigals, what pÆans, have been sung, and what victories celebrated, from the time the first fibres were braided until the chirping nestlings were able to shift for themselves! And, alas, how many fond hopes have perished as well! No doubt the ruses and subterfuges employed to elude cunning foes or ward off their murderous attacks, would fill a volume of valuable information on military tactics. One might write comedies or tragedies about the nest-life of the birds that would be no less interesting than realistic. More than that, the study of these wonderful fabrics would virtually be a study of the psychology of the feathered artisans, each nest being an index of a special type of mind and a measure of the bird’s mental resources. As William Hamilton Gibson has well said: “To know the nidification and nest-life of a bird is to get the cream of its history;” than which nothing could be truer or more aptly expressed.

No wonder the poets have so often been thrown into lyrical moods over the homesteads of the birds! Mrs. Margaret E. Sangster’s poem on “The Building of the Nest” is perhaps not unfamiliar to most readers; but one stanza is so graceful and rhythmical that it begs for quotation at this point:—

“They’ll come again to the apple-tree—

Robin and all the rest—

When the orchard branches are fair to see

In the snow of blossoms dressed,

And the prettiest thing in the world will be

The building of the nest.”

In one of my rambles I found an abandoned towhee bunting’s nest containing three eggs, and could not help speculating as to the cause of its desertion. Might there have been a quarrel between husband and wife, making a separation necessary? I am loath to believe it, although, if certain acute observers are correct, divorce is not wholly unknown in the bird community. But in this case I am inclined to think that some enemy had destroyed the female, for a male flitted about in the bushes, calling a good deal and singing at intervals, and there seemed to be a plaintive note in his song, as if he might be chanting an elegy. At all events, the pair that built the nest had had their tragedy.

Every bird-student must admit that his quest for nests often ends in disappointment, because many birds are adepts at concealment, while others build in places where you would not think of looking. However, I have had but little difficulty in finding the nests of the brown thrasher, which erects an inartistic platform of sticks, bound together by a few grass fibres, and thus is easily descried in the bushes, where it is usually placed. Early in the spring I found the nest of a pair of these birds in a thick clump of bushes near the edge of a woodland, and resolved to keep watch over it until the young family had left their home. The parent birds in this case were very solicitous for the safety of their young. Every time I called they set up a pitiful to-do, which invariably made me hurry away, after a timid peep into the cradle. There is as much difference in the temperaments of birds of the same species as there is among persons belonging to the same family. While the thrashers in question seemed to be terrified at my presence, others driven from their nests displayed little or no fear, but sat quietly on a perch near by and allowed me to examine their domicile without so much as a chirp.

The brown thrasher has surprised me by the variety of places he selects for building his log house. Wilson Flagg in his book, “A Year with the Birds,” says that this bird usually builds on the ground; and Mr. Eldridge E. Fish, who writes pleasantly about the birds of western New York, bears similar testimony. Perhaps thrasher-fashion in New England and New York differs from thrasher-fashion in Ohio (in which locality the birds display the best taste I will not say); for during the spring of 1890 I found but two nests on the ground, and was surprised to find even them, while at least fifteen were discovered in other places. Most of them were on low thorn-bushes, but not all. One was built in a brush-heap, one on a pile of “cord-wood,” another on a small stump screened by some bushes, and two on a rail fence. Of the last two, one was partly supported by poison-ivy vines and partly by a rail; the other was built entirely on a rail in a projecting corner of the fence.

The thrasher, as has been said, builds an artless platform of sticks that in some cases barely holds together long enough to answer the purpose for which it was intended. In this respect its habits differ from those of the wood-thrush, a bird that is very abundant and musical in my neighborhood. I have found many of the wood-thrush’s nests, which are built in the crotches of small saplings in the thickest part of the woods, and are made almost as substantial as the adobe dwellings of the robin. The thrush does not use as much mortar as his red-breasted relative; otherwise there is a close resemblance between the nests of the two birds.

It was amusing to find pieces of newspaper bedizening the houses of the wood-thrushes so frequently, though it cannot be said that they showed the highest literary taste in their selections; for one or two of the fragments contained accounts of political caucuses. However, it would be too much to assume that the birds had read them, as many of us “humans” find such literature too deep for our comprehension. I shall neither eulogize nor stigmatize this favorite minstrel by calling him a politician, although if one were to regard his nesting-habits alone, he deserves that sobriquet quite as well as the white-eyed vireo.

That parasite among American birds, the female cow-bunting, audaciously spirits her eggs into the wood-thrush’s nest, to be hatched with those that properly belong there, while she and her mate sit in the trees near by and whistle their taunting airs, and watch to see whether their dupe attends faithfully to the additional household cares imposed upon her. When the birds are hatched, the victim of this piece of imposture innocently feeds her foster children with the best tidbits she can find, spite of the fact that they may soon crowd her own offspring out of the nest-home. The wonder is that she does not discover the trick at once; for her eggs are deep blue, while the cow-bird’s are white, speckled with ashy brown. Can the wood-thrush be color-blind?

About two miles from town, along the banks of a small creek, was the nest of that interesting little bird, the summer warbler,—a dainty structure, composed of downy material, and deftly lodged among the twigs of a sapling at the foot of a cliff. A cold spring gurgled from the rocks near by; the willows and buttonwood trees bent to the balmy breezes, and the tinkling of the brook mingled with the songs of many birds. A place for day-dreams truly, and the summer warblers were the dryads and nymphs flitting through the realms of fancy. If all birds were as astute as the summer warbler, the race of cow-buntings would soon become extinct, or would soon have to change their methods of propagation, and go to rearing their own families. Our little strategist, when she comes home and finds a cowbird’s egg dropped into her nest, begins forthwith to add another story, and thus leaves the interloper in the cellar, with a floor between it and her warm breast. It is a genuine case of “being left out in the cold.” I have found several of these exquisite towers that were three stories high, on the top of which the little bird sat perched like a goddess on the summit of Olympus. (My simile may seem a trifle farfetched, but I shall let it stand.) But why, you dear little sprite, do you not merely pitch the offensive egg out of the nest, instead of going to all the trouble of building a loft? No answer, save an untranslatable trill, comes from the throat of the dainty minstrel.[3]

Some years ago I witnessed a curious bit of bird-behavior that I have never seen described in any of the numerous books on ornithology which I have consulted. I make reference to it here for the first time. I was strolling along the banks of a broad river in northern Indiana on the first of June, when a warm, steady rain set in. How the birds contrive to keep their eggs and nestlings dry during a shower had long been an enigma to me, and now was my time to find out. Knowing where a summer warbler had built her nest in some bushes, I cautiously approached, and then stood looking down on the bird before me, which showed no disposition to leave her progeny to the mercy of the elements. It was a picture indeed! The darling little mother—how can one help using an endearing term!—sat with her wings and tail spread out gracefully over the rim of the nest all the way round, thus making a perfect umbrella of her lithe, dainty body.

Nothing could differ more from the airy out-door nest of the summer warbler than the dark subterranean caverns of the swallows in the bank of the creek. One day, while sauntering along a stream, I noticed a hole in the opposite bank. I passed on, but on second thought turned to look at the excavation a little more closely, when a swallow darted like an arrow into it, and in a few moments made as quick an exit. Wading across the creek, I thrust my walking-stick, which was almost four feet long, into the orifice over its entire length without reaching the end! Why a bird, so neat in attire and so agile on the wing, should build her nest in a dark Erebus like that, is a Sphinx’s riddle that must be left to wiser heads to solve.

What a contrast is the open-air hammock of the Baltimore oriole, swinging from the flexible branches of a buttonwood tree a little farther up the stream! How softly the chirping brood within is rocked by the breezes that sweep down from the slopes, laden with the odor of clover blossoms! Somewhere near there must be a warbling vireo’s nest, for one of these birds is singing in the trees; but my eyes are not sharp enough to descry its pensile domicile.

On my way home, on the top of a hill, I step casually up to a small thorn-bush, whose branches and leaves are thickly matted together, and, as I push the foliage aside, there is a flutter of wings, followed by a rapid chirping, and a little bird flits away, pretending to be seriously wounded. It is a bush-sparrow. Cosily placed beneath the leafy roof among the thick boughs is the procreant cradle. What could be more dainty! A little nest, woven of fine grass-fibres, deftly lined with hair, and containing four speckled eggs, real gems. How “beautiful for situation” is this tiny cottage on the hill! Here the feathered poets may sit on their leafy verandas, look down into the green valleys, and compose verses on the pastoral attractions of Nature. One is almost tempted to spin a romance about the happy couple.

On returning, one day, from an ornithological jaunt, I met my friend, the young farmer, who knows something about my furor for the birds. There was a knowing smile on his sunburned face. “I know where there’s a killdeer’s nest,” he said; “would you like to see it?” Tired out as I was with my long walk, I exclaimed: “Yes, sir! I’ll follow you to the end of the world to see a plover’s nest.” The sentence was added merely by way of mild (not wild) hyperbole. A shallow pit in the open corn-field, lined with a few chips and pebbles, constituted the nest of the plover, not having so much as a spear of grass to protect it from rain and storm. It contained one egg and a callow youngster, the egg being quite large at one end and pointed at the other, which gave it a very uncouth shape. My young friend informed me that there had been five eggs when he found the nest, all lying with their acute ends toward the centre; the next time he went to look there were only four, then three, and finally only two. Evidently the parent birds were having a serious time guarding their homestead from marauders. On going to the place some days later, I found both the egg and the baby plover gone, and I could only hope that no mischance had befallen them.

Strange as it may seem, the winter is a favorable season for nest-hunting. True, the birds are not then at home, to speak with a good deal of license, or engaged in rearing families; but the deserted structures may be more readily found after the leaves have fallen from the trees and bushes. As I stroll through the woods or the marsh on a winter day, scores of nests that escaped my eye during the summer are to be seen. Especially is this the case after a snowfall, for the nests catch the descending flakes which are piled up in them in downy mounds, and thus attract the attention of the observer. I have often felt inclined to heap upon myself the most caustic epithets for having passed again and again, during the breeding-season, so near the nest of an interesting bird without knowing of its existence until winter’s frosts had stripped the coppice of its leaves, and have resolved as often that the next season shall not find me napping.

In the marsh which is one of my favorite trudging-grounds, I made a quaint discovery some winters ago, which has raised more than one query in my mind. One day, after a snowfall, I found many deserted nests in the thickets. Brushing the snow out of them revealed, in the bottom of each basket, a small pile of the seeds and broken shells of wild-rose and thorn berries. Why had the birds put them there—if it was the birds? Perhaps the winter birds, when they arrived in the autumn, found these old nests good storehouses in which to lay by their winter supplies. I have never seen the birds feeding on them, but, as spring approached, the berry seeds had nearly all disappeared.

Come with me, for I know a pleasant, half-cloistered field of clover which is the habitat of a number of charming little birds. Just where it is shall remain one of my semi-sylvan secrets, for one must not betray all the confidences of one’s feathered intimates. The field cuts a right angle in a woodland, by which it is, therefore, bounded on the east and north, while toward the west and south the undulating country stretches away like a billowy sea of green. The woods themselves, on the sides adjacent to the field, are hemmed and fringed with a thick growth of saplings, bushes, and brambles, where the feathered husbands sit and hymn their joy by the hour to their little mates hugging their nests in the clover and the copse. It is a quiet spot,—one of Nature’s nunneries. Human dwellings may be seen in the distance; but it is seldom that any one, save a mooning rambler like myself, goes there to disturb the peace of the feathered tenants.

Here, one summer a few years ago, a pair of those wary birds the yellow-breasted chats built a nest, which they placed snugly in the blackberry bushes that bordered and partly hid the rail fence. I kept close reconnoissance on this little homestead until the nascent inmates were about half-fledged, when, to my dismay, every one of them was kidnapped by some despicable nest-robber. My own sorrow was equalled only by the inexpressible anguish of the bereaved parents. To add to my troubles, a nestful of young indigo-birds came to grief in the same way. There must be, it seems, a system of brigandage in every realm, be it human or faunal.

A pair of bush-sparrows, however, were more fortunate in their brood-rearing. One day, while standing near the fence, I noticed a bush-sparrow, bearing an insect in her bill, dart down into the clover, a short distance over in the field. I walked to the spot, when she flew up with an uneasy chirp, proclaiming a secret that she could not keep. There on the grass, sure enough, was her nestful of little ones. Some accident must have befallen the fibrous cot, for the weeds and clover were broken down and trampled flat all around it, so that it sat loosely, on the ground, without even a blade of grass to shelter it. Fearing that buccaneers in the shape of jays or hawks might rob the nest, I broke off a number of weeds and made a sort of thatched roof over it; that would also protect the panting infants from the sun, which was beating down like a furnace. Then I took my stand a few rods away, to see what the old birds would do. Erelong both the papa and mamma came with billsome morsels in their mouths, and, after fluttering about uneasily for a few minutes, darted down to the nest and fed their young. Of course, they first had to peep, and peer, and cant their dainty heads this way and that, to examine the roof I had improvised for the nest, wondering, no doubt, what kind of a bungling architect had been at work there; but finally they seemed to think all was well. Perhaps in their hearts they thanked me for my thoughtful care.

A day or two later I called again, even at the risk of coming de trop. The weeds arched over the bird crib at my former visit having withered, I made them another green roof, sheltering them as cosily as I could and leaving a small opening at the side for an entrance. After an absence of a few minutes I crept surreptitiously back to the enchanted spot,—for it drew me like a loadstone,—and there sat the trim little mother on her cradle, covering her children to keep them warm, her reddish-brown tail daintily reaching out through the doorway. She did not fly up as I bent lovingly over her, and presently I stole away, desirous not to disturb her.

The bush-sparrow is a captivating little bird, graceful of form and sweet of voice, singing his cheerful trills from early spring until far past midsummer. The song makes me think of a silver thread running through a woof of golden sunshine, carried forward by a swinging shuttle of pearl. I think the figure is not far-fetched. He is quite partial to a dense little thorn-bush for a nesting-place, often concealing his grassy cottage so cunningly that you must look sharply for it among the leaves and twigs, or it will escape your eye.

One of the neatest and prettiest denizens of my clover-field was the goldfinch. Wings of black and coat of bright yellow, he went bounding through the ether, rising and falling in graceful festoons of flight, in such a lightsome way he seemed to be rocking himself on the breeze. How jauntily he wore his tiny black cap, little exquisite of the field that he is, to whom I always go hat in hand! He deserves a monograph all to himself, but at this time I can spare him only a few paragraphs.

As a rule, the goldfinches prefer to build their nests in small trees, often selecting the maples along the suburban streets of the city. I was greatly surprised, therefore, to find a nest in my clover-field, where there were no trees at all. Noticing a bird fly into a clump of blackberry bushes one day, I took it for a female indigo-bird. A nest was soon found woven very neatly and compactly, and having not only grass-fibres wrought into its structure, but also wool and thistle-down. A queer indigo-bird’s nest, I mused. The wool in the cup was ruffled and loose, and taking it for a deserted homestead, I carelessly thrust my hand into it. The next moment I was sorry for the thoughtless act, for the material looked so fresh that I decided it must be an unfinished bird-cradle. I resolved to discover the owners, if possible. Two days later it was in the same condition. Had I driven away the little builders by laying defiling hands on the nest? I felt like a culprit, and waited a week before again venturing to visit the place, when, as I approached, a female goldfinch flew from the nest, uncovering five dainty white eggs, set like pearls in the bottom of the cup. A goldfinch’s nest in a blackberry bush! That was a climax of surprises, in very truth.

On the same day, not far distant, another bush-sparrow’s nest was found in some bushes, placed about three feet from the ground. In a few weeks there were babies five in the goldfinch’s nest, and four in that of the bush-sparrow. Pray keep both nests in mind, remembering that the youngsters of both families were hatched on the same day. One evening at twilight I again stepped out to the clover-field. The mother goldfinch was sitting close on her nest, and did not stir as I came near. Then I touched her lightly with my cane. Still she remained on her nest as if glued fast, only glaring at me with her wild, beady eyes. At length I softly laid my finger on her back, when she uttered a queer, half-scolding cry, and leaped up to the nest’s rim, but did not fly. There she stood, turning her head and eying me keenly until I stole away, unwilling to forfeit her confidence and good-will. But when, on my way home, I paused a moment to look at the bush-sparrow’s nest, the mother flitted away with a frightened chirp before I came within reach. She was not as confiding as her little neighbor, the goldfinch.

Now mark! On the fifteenth of August the young bush-sparrows had become so large and well developed that when, meaning no harm, I touched them gently with my finger, they flipped out of the nest like flashes of lightning. The infant goldfinches were not yet more than half fledged, and merely snuggled close to the bottom of the nest when I caressed them. The idea of flying was still remote from their little pates. These observations prove that young bush-sparrows develop much more rapidly than young goldfinches; yet, strange as it may seem, the goldfinch, when grown, flies much higher, if not more swiftly, than his little neighbor, and continues longer on the wing.

On the same day I sat down in the clover, a few rods from the goldfinch’s nest, and kept close watch on both the old birds and their offspring for an hour and a half. The sun attacked me savagely with his red-hot arrows, and the sweat broke from every pore, but I felt amply repaid for my vigil. During the first half-hour the parent birds ventured slyly to feed their bantlings twice. Then I crept closer, and waited an hour; but the parent birds were too shy to bring their hungry nestlings a single mouthful of food, choosing, it would seem, to let them suffer hunger rather than take risk themselves. The little things were almost famished, and behaved very quaintly. Every rustle of the leaves in the wind caused them to start up, crane out their necks, pry open their mouths as wide as they could, waddle awkwardly from side to side, and chirp for something to eat. How famished they were! They even seized one another’s heads and tried to gulp one another down. The spectacle was just a little uncanny.

But, dear me! they were not as ignorant of the ways of the world as you might suppose. When I lightly tapped the stems of the bushes with my cane, instead of leaping up and opening their mouths as they were expected to do, they shrank down into the bottom of the nest, discerning at once the difference between those strokes on the bush and their parents’ quiet approach or loving call. Something must have put them on their guard, and instilled feelings of fear into their palpitating bosoms. Perhaps it was that shy personage, the mother herself; for she would call admonishingly at intervals from the woods, Ba-bie! ba-bie! putting a pathetic accent on the second syllable. It was droll to see the youngsters try to preen their feathers, they went about the performance so awkwardly.

On the seventeenth of the month one of the nestlings was missing, and no amount of looking for it in the thicket revealed any clew to its whereabouts. None of the remaining birds were ready to fly. Two days later they were still in the nest, although they had grown considerably since my last visit, so that one of them was almost crowded out of the circular trundle-bed. I could not resist the temptation to lift it in my hand, just to see how pretty it was and how it would act. It uttered a sharp cry of alarm, and sprang from my hand; but its wings were still so weak that it merely fluttered in an oblique direction to the ground. The third time I caught it, it sat contentedly on my palm, and allowed me to stroke its back, looking up at its captor with mingled wonder and trustfulness.

On the heads of all the nestlings a fine down protruded up through and above the feathers. The birds looked very knowingly out of their small coal-black eyes, but the cunning little things obstinately refused to open their mouths for me, entice them as I would; however, when I moved away some distance, and their mamma came with a tempting morsel, they sprang up instantly and gulped it down. Not so very unsophisticated, after all, for mere bantlings! On the morning of the twenty-sixth all the young finches had left the nest, and were perched in the bushes near by. I contrived to catch one of them and hold him in my hand a few moments, to admire his dainty toilet and pretty dark eyes. Thus my brief study in comparative ornithology proved that the young goldfinches left the nest seven days after the young bush-sparrows, hatched at the same time, had taken wing.

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