The family of warblers—among the loveliest of all birds—are in a still worse case, and much the same may be said of swallows and blackbirds, thrushes and vireos. The number of species and their perplexing similarity, which are such an attraction to the student, prove an effectual bar to those who have time and money for newspapers and novels, but can spare neither for a manual of local ornithology.
I have named six birds which every one knows, or may know, but of course I do not mean that these are all. Why should not everybody know the goldfinch—a small, stout-billed, bright yellow, canary-like bird, with black wings and tail and a black cap? And the flicker—or golden-winged woodpecker—a little larger than the robin, with gold-lined wings, a black crescent on the breast, a red patch on the back of the head, and a white rump, conspicuous as the bird takes wing? The hummingbird, too—our only one; I should say that everybody ought to recognize it, only that I have found some who confuse it with sphinx moths, and will hardly believe me when I tell them of their mistake. The cedar-bird, likewise, known also as the cherry-bird and the waxwing, is a bird by itself; remarkably trim and sleek, its upper parts of a peculiarly warm cinnamon brown, its lower parts yellowish, its tail tipped handsomely with yellow, its head marked with black and adorned with a truly magnificent topknot; as great a lover of cherries as any schoolboy, and one of the first birds upon which the youthful taxidermist tries his hand. Just now—in early March—the waxwings are hereabout in great flocks (I saw more than a hundred, surely, three days ago), stuffing themselves, literally, with savin berries. These large flocks will after a while disappear, and some time later, in May, smaller companies will arrive from the South and settle with us for the summer, helping themselves to our cherries in return for the swarms of insects of whose presence they have relieved us. If we see them thus engaged, we shall do well to remember the Scripture text, “The laborer is worthy of his hire.”
This enumeration of birds, so strongly marked that even a wayfaring man may easily name them, might be extended indefinitely. It would be a strange Massachusetts boy who did not know the ruffed grouse (though he would probably call him the partridge) and the Bob White; the kingbird, with his black and white plumage, his aerial tumblings, and his dashing pursuit of the crow; the splendid scarlet tanager, fiery red, with black tail and wings; the bobolink; the red-winged blackbird, whose watery conkaree is so welcome a sound about the meadows in March; the slate-colored snowbird; the indigo-bird, small, deep blue throughout, and with a thick bill; the butcher-bird, a constant though not numerous winter visitor, sometimes flying against windows in which canaries are hung, as one did at our house only this winter—these surely may be known by any who will take even slight pains to form their acquaintance. And, beside these, there are two birds whom everybody does know, but whom I forgot to include with the six first mentioned,—the catbird and the brown thrasher, two overgrown, long-tailed wrens, near relatives of the mockingbird, both of them great singers in their way, and one of them—the catbird—decidedly familiar and a fairly good mimic.
XIX
WINTER PENSIONERS
Our northern winter is a lean time, ornithologically, though it brings us some choice birds of its own, and is not without many alleviations. When the redpolls come in crowds and the white-winged crossbills in good numbers, both of which things happened last year, the world is not half so bad with us as it might be. Still, winter is winter, a season to be tided over rather than doted upon, and anything which helps to make the time pass agreeably is matter for thankfulness. So I am asked to write something about the habit we are in at our house of feeding birds in cold weather, and thus keeping them under the windows. Really we have done nothing peculiar, nor has our success been beyond that of many of our neighbors; but such as it is, the work has given us much enjoyment, and the readers of “Bird-Lore”[1] are welcome to the story.
Our method is to put out pieces of raw suet, mostly the trimmings of beefsteak. These we attach to branches of trees and to the veranda trellis, taking pains, of course, to have them beyond the cat’s reach (that the birds may feed safely), and at the same time well disposed for our own convenience as spectators. For myself, in addition, I generally nail pieces of the bait upon one or two of the outer sills of my study windows. I like, as I sit reading or writing, to hear now and then a nuthatch or a chickadee hammering just outside the pane. Often I rise to have a look at the visitor. There is nothing but the glass between us, and I can stand near enough to see his beady eyes, and, so to speak, the expression of his face. Sometimes two birds are there at once, one waiting for the other. Sometimes they have a bit of a set-to. Then, certainly, they are not without facial expression.
Once in a while, in severe weather, I have sprinkled crumbs (sweet or fatty crumbs are best—say bits of doughnut) on the inside ledge, and then, with the window raised a few inches, have awaited callers. If the weather is bad enough they are not long in coming. A chickadee alights on the outer sill, notices the open window, scolds a little (the thing looks like a trap—at all events it is something new, and birds are conservative), catches sight of the crumbs (well, now, that’s another story), ceases his dee, dee, dee, and the next minute hops inside.
A DOWNY WOODPECKER
