WHERE SWALLOWS ROOST
Contributing little to the material wealth of the nation, the Hackensack marshes of northern New Jersey are usually regarded as “waste land.” By the farmer they are termed “salt medders,” and their waving grasses are of value to him only as “bedding” for cattle. In winter the muskrat hunter reaps a harvest of pelts there. The down of the “cat-tails” is gathered for cushion stuffing, and the bladed leaves for chair bottoms. To the gunner they are the resort of Ducks, Snipe, Rail, and Reedbirds, which each year visit them in decreasing numbers; while to the thousands who daily pass them on the encircling railroads they are barren and uninteresting. But if beauty is a sufficient cause for being, then these marshes may claim a right to existence.
In preglacial times this region was probably forested, but now the forest is buried beneath the drift of the glacier which deposited fragments of Palisade and Orange Mountain trap rock on Staten Island. During the depression of the land which occurred as the ice gradually receded, the waters of the sea doubtless passed up here and the meadow was a larger “Newark Bay.” Then commenced their slow filling up by the silt brought down by the Hackensack River. The river has preserved a right of way, but the bay has given place to a sea of reeds and grasses.
45. Hackensack marshes in August.
On a bright August morning I mount a spur of trap rock which reaches out from the western base of the Palisades, and from this elevation have an uninterrupted view over the meadows. The cool, invigorating air foretells the approach of autumn; it is brilliantly clear. The Orange hills stand out with the distinctness of Western mountains. The sun is at my back, and the light shows the meadows to the best advantage. At this distance I get the effect of only the masses of color; tracts of yellowish green meadow grass tinged with copper, and in places thickly sprinkled with the white flowers of the water hemlock and water parsnip; streaks of light green wild rice, and sharply defined areas of dark green cat-tail flags. The grass grows on the drier land, the wild rice in the small sloughs and creeks which are bordered by the flags. In the spring the wind blows the pollen from the cat-tail blossoms, and a shifting greenish vapor floats over the marsh; in the autumn a heavy westerly wind raises the seed-bearing down high in the air, carries it over the Palisades, across the Hudson, and it descends like a fall of fleecy snow on wondering New York.
The marsh is a vast arena inclosed by the Palisades and Passaic hills; it is a great plain, with blue stretches of the winding river appearing here and there, and the haystacks are the huts of aborigines. I half close my eyes, and it is a copper-yellow sea. The grasses roll in undulating waves, capped by a white crest of parsnip and hemlock blossoms; the dark irregular patches of flags are the shadows of clouds, the light streaks of wild rice are shoals, a hovering Marsh Hawk is a Gull. A stately white-winged schooner[45] comes up the river; her hull is hidden by the meadow grasses; she is sailing through the sea of my fancy.
This is an impressionist’s view of the meadows. Now let us leave our rocky lookout and examine them more in detail. The meadow we are leaving is a meadow of all summer; the one we are approaching is a meadow clad in all the glory of its August flowers. One might think Nature was holding a flower show here, so gorgeous is the display. The railway track at the edge of the marsh is apparently an endless aisle bordered by a rich exhibit of flowers. Clusters of thoroughwort and purple loose-strife grow so abundantly they give color to the foreground, through which wild sunflowers make streaks of gold. There are solid beds of purple asters on the drier land, and delicate snow-white saggitarias in the sloughs. Jewel flowers sparkle through the flags, and convolvulus hangs from the reeds, its own foliage scarce showing, or, growing with the fragrant climbing hempweed, it forms banks of dense vegetation. The scarlet lobelia darts upward like a tongue of flame, startling in its intense brilliancy. There are burnet, vervain, gerardia, and running groundnut. But it is the marsh[46] mallow which, more than any other flower, gives beauty to the meadow. It grows here with wasteful luxuriance, and the dark masses of flags serve as a frame for this floral picture. Out in the marsh it grows in equal profusion; the meadow is hung with small pink lanterns, as if for a fête. A single flower of the marsh mallow commands the attention of the most unobservant, and when growing in abundance it excites enthusiastic admiration.
46. Marsh mallows.
Nor is the animal life of the marsh less interesting than its flora. Meadow mice nest beneath the haycocks. Were it not for the minks and Hawks which prey on them, they might become a scourge throughout the surrounding country. Muskrats are living in peaceful security in their snug summer homes, hollowed from the banks of the streams. They are the true villagers here, and pass the winter in icy huts, like Eskimos. Out in the grasses Short-eared Owls are hiding. Their day begins when the sun disappears behind the Orange hills; then one may hear the “quawk” of the Night Heron. Red-winged Blackbirds nest here, and in the autumn they gather in great flocks and feed on the wild rice.
47. Wild rice.
Long-billed Marsh Wrens—small, nervous, excitable bits of feathered life—are abundant in the flags, and to them they attach their large woven nests. Except for a harsh, scolding note they are silent now, but earlier in the year the marsh is musical with their rippling songs. The fervor of the love season overcomes their fondness for the dark recesses of the flags, and, singing, they rise into the air as if driven upward by the mine of melody which explodes within them.
Swamp Sparrows are common, and their clear trill is one of the few August songs. Bobolinks, traveling in disguise and under the assumed name of “Reedbird,” pause here to feed on the ripening wild rice.[47] Some of them have not yet completed their change of costume and appear in a spotted suit of black and yellow. Occasionally one hears a suppressed burst of the “mad music” of June, but their common note is a metallic chink. At night this note is heard from high in the air, as the birds continue their journey to the cultivated rice fields of South Carolina and Georgia, there to remain until September or October, when they leave for their winter home south of the Amazon.
The Sora Rails, beloved of sportsmen and epicures, are also attracted to the marshes by the wild rice. On their arrival in early August they are indeed “as thin as a rail,” but an abundance of food soon rounds their bodies into comparative plumpness. The 1st of September is a black day in their calendar. Then they are outlawed, a price is set on their bodies, and at high tide each day during this sad month one sees numerous puffs of smoke arise from the tall grasses and dull reports come booming over the marsh with fateful frequency.
But the characteristic birds of the marshes at this season are Swallows. They outnumber many times all the rest of the marsh birds together—in fact, are present in such myriads that their gatherings are one of the most interesting and impressive phenomena of the bird life of this region.
Five species are represented. Named in the order of their abundance they are the Tree, Bank, Barn, Eave, and Rough-winged Swallows. The last are comparatively rare, while the Tree Swallows are so in excess of all the species named that the following remarks relate largely to them alone.
Although Tree or White-breasted Swallows nest locally throughout North America, from the tableland of Mexico to Labrador and Alaska, there are but few instances of their breeding in the lower Hudson River valley, where they appear only as migrants or transient visitants. They arrive from the south early in April, and their northward migration is not concluded until about June 1st. During June they are rarely seen, but between the 1st and the 5th of July they begin their journey to their winter homes—a movement which inaugurates the fall migration.
This stage of their journey takes them only to certain marshes, which become stations on their line of travel where countless numbers of their kind, impelled by the flocking impulse, gather to roost in the reeds. Their numbers increase steadily through July and August, the maximum of abundance being reached about September 1st; then they gradually become less numerous, and by October 10th comparatively few remain, though if the weather be favorable, they may be observed daily until late in the month.
Throughout this period—from July to October—the marsh is used only as a dormitory, the reeds evidently offering suitable perches to these weak-footed birds, who in the morning radiate throughout the surrounding country and in the evening return to the marsh to sleep. In the evening they fly low, and the altitude and time of their flight make them conspicuous. In the morning they fly high, as though bound to some distant feeding ground, and at so early an hour that they usually escape observation. The evening flight, therefore, is generally considered as truly migratory, when, in fact, the same birds doubtless pass over a given locality night after night, perhaps for weeks, in returning to their roosts in the marshes.
48. “Bird notes”—Tree Swallows.
These evening flights begin about two hours and a half before sunset, when the birds, after resting during the late forenoon and early afternoon, usually on some telegraph wire,[48] begin to wheel and circle over the fields in pursuit of their evening meal, when one might imagine they were resident birds, but observation will show that the general trend of their movement is toward the roost.
This continues for an hour to an hour and a half, a cloudy evening hastening their actions, when their flight becomes more direct. Few birds pause to feed, but hurry on to the roosting places, and as the light fades the last birds rush through the gloom with arrowy speed and directness. The birds pass in straggling flocks, and periods of abundance are succeeded by intervals of scarcity, as though the individuals which had been associated during the day were journeying home together.
Thus the Swallow’s evening flight may be observed throughout the region surrounding the marshes; even in New York city they may be seen feeding above the houses, and after sunset flocks of swift-flying birds are often confused by the telegraph wires, which, however, their dexterity of wing permits them to pass without serious harm.
In the marshes the first birds are seen about two hours before sunset. Many follow the course of the river, and if one be at its border splash after splash is heard as the birds dip lightly into the water, followed by soft fluffs as arising from the stream they shake their plumage. Soon the air is filled with Swallows, all streaming toward the roost with increasing swiftness.
Many birds, however, as though waiting for some tardy comrades, rest by the way, perching on telegraph wires should they cross the marsh, or when these are wanting, on the tips of the reeds. They invariably face the wind, and when it is from the west the last rays of the sun striking their white breasts make them appear like snowy flowers crowning the reeds. Suddenly, with a rush, they whirl onward to the roost.
Thus far the exact location of this roost has defied my search. I have, however, roughly defined the bounds of that section of the marsh in which it is placed by observation stands at which the Swallows flew north and south respectively, and somewhere between the two I still hope to discover the Swallows’ sleeping haunts.
The following description of their departure from the marshes in the morning is abstracted from my journal, under date of August 15, 1886: “A cool, clear morning, with a light northwesterly wind. I reached the marshes shortly before five o’clock, when they appeared to be deserted, not a Swallow being in sight. At two minutes of five the first birds were observed, then flock after flock they came until at five the air was filled with hurrying forms, flying at varying altitudes toward the north.
“Suddenly, from the meadows near me there arose a vast cloud of Swallows, doubtless birds which had come from farther south in the marsh before my arrival. Steadily they mounted upward, until having attained a height where with a strong glass they appeared faint dots against the sky, they slowly winged their way northward.
“All the time the meadows were alive with birds feeding in every direction; gradually they passed to the north, when another huge flock arose from the marsh, and after gaining an immense height disappeared, this time toward the east.
49. Tree Swallows in tree.
“As the sun rose over the Palisades few birds were on the wing, but great flocks were perched in the reeds on the banks of the creek, and as in my canoe I drifted slowly up to them, they seemed unmindful of my presence, when, as though at a signal, they arose as one bird, and after hovering lightly overhead returned to the reeds.
“The tide was low, and along the shore several Sora Rail were feeding, and, as carried by the tide I floated noiselessly by, they paused in their search for food, and with tails upraised regarded me with evident astonishment. A mink approached the shores of a small inflowing stream, hesitated, then plunged in, crossed, and disappeared in the tall grasses on the opposite side. The air was vocal with the calls of Red-winged Blackbirds, the chink of Bobolinks, and the rattle of Swamp Sparrows.
“On a reed-grown point below was another great army of Swallows. With surprising regularity a detachment left it every fifteen minutes; thus, birds left at 6, 6.15, 6.30, and 6.45, when the reeds were deserted. The departing birds did not arise alone, but the entire flock arose at once, then divided into two flocks, one of which flew northward while the other returned to the reeds. Many of the departing birds alighted on the reeds farther up the creek; their numbers constantly received additions from the ranks of passing birds, and thus new flocks were formed.
“At eight o’clock the last Swallows had left the reeds in my vicinity, but birds were constantly passing toward the north, and this straggling flight continued until nine o’clock, when again the marshes appeared deserted.”
Subsequent observations have been made largely from a road crossing the marsh, the telegraph and electric-light wires which border it being the resting place of vast numbers of Swallows, both at night and in the morning. Particularly do they throng the wires near the creek, which flows north and south through the marsh, and which, it is interesting to observe, forms a natural highway for the Swallows as they go to and from their roosts.
On the sides of this road are several small maple trees, to which the Swallows often resort in such numbers that their foliage trembles as though in a strong breeze, it not being the birds’ object to perch in the trees, but to flutter among the dew-laden leaves, and apparently bathe in the moisture they contain, while between the baths they rest on the smaller terminal twigs, when they are very difficult to observe.[49] This habit does not appear to have been previously recorded, and I am by no means certain that the explanation offered is the true one.
50. Tree Swallows on wire and nest hunting about pile.
Frequently one or more flocks, varying in size from eight or ten to several hundred birds, may be seen in the road, where I at first supposed they were “dusting,” but soon noticed that most of the birds after alighting in the road were motionless. They did not move about as though searching for food, but occasionally the actions of a pair enabled one apparently to determine the sex of each individual, and more often a bird would pick up a bit of dried grass and fly up into the air with it. Sometimes it was carried fifty yards or more and then dropped; at others, the birds would carry it to the telegraph wires above, and drop it after perching a moment. Without exception, all the birds seen to alight in the road were in the dull, immature plumage of birds of the year, and in their actions, as Mr. William Brewster has remarked (The Auk, 1898, p. 194), they evidently gave a premature exhibition of the procreative and nest-building instincts.[51]
Additional evidence of the possession of inherited knowledge was apparently given by many Tree Swallows, who were frequently seen hovering about a pile standing in the creek.[50] At first it was supposed that these birds were feeding on insects which had alighted on the pile; but the number of birds—often a dozen or more—seen fluttering about it, and the persistency with which they remained there, forced the conclusion that in a wholly unreasoning way they were looking for a nesting site.
Swallows are not known to migrate by night, and, so far as I am aware, no single Swallow has ever been found among the thousands of night-flying birds which have perished by striking lighthouses. The Swallows, therefore, when migrating probably leave the marsh during the day, but in what manner who can say?
51. Immature Tree Swallows gathering nesting material.
Several times when crossing the marshes on the cars I have observed gatherings of Swallows which made the immense flocks observed daily in August and September seem little more than a family of birds. They appeared in the distance like a vast swarm of gnats; it was as though all the Swallows in the marsh had collected in one great storm of birds. The significance of this movement I have never had the fortune to determine, but it seems highly probable that it is connected with the inauguration of an actual migration toward the birds’ winter quarters.