One day I stumbled upon a very tall thrush nest, looking almost like a tower in its crotch. As the nestlings had left, I lifted it from its place and tore it apart, thinking the thrush might have fallen upon the summer warbler’s ruse to outwit the cow-bunting by adding another story to her hut, thus leaving the bunting’s intruded egg in the cellar. But such was not the case; she had simply done the unorthodox thing of using an old nest, still in good condition, for a foundation upon which to rear the new structure. Will the theologians of thrushdom bring charges of heresy against her? Was it really a case of “higher criticism”? It may have been, especially when you remember that these thrushes often weave into their nests fragments of newspapers, some of which may contain theological discussions.
One peculiarity in the nest-building of most of the birds of my neighborhood may as well be mentioned now as later; they seldom build in the densest and most secluded parts of the woods, but usually choose some bush or sapling near the border, or close to a woodland path or winding road, where people sometimes pass. Perhaps they do this because the natural enemies of birds, such as squirrels, minks, and hawks, fight shy of these pathways traversed by human feet. Perhaps, too, the birds do not like the gloom and loneliness of the more sequestered portions of the woods. They like to be semi-sociable, at least, and are not disposed to make monks and nuns of themselves.
A far more artless nest is that of the turtle-dove. This bird should attend an industrial college for a term or two, to learn the art of building; but it would do no good: the meek little thing would cling obstinately to her inherited ideas, and never become a connoisseur in nest construction. Sometimes, when you stand beneath her cottage, you can see her white eggs gleaming through the interstices of the loosely matted floor. As a rule, she builds on a branch; but something possessed one little mother, in the spring of 1891, to build her nursery on a large stump about six feet high, standing right in the midst of the woods. I fear she was not a well trained bird; but I watched her closely, and must concede that, whether her conduct was in “good form” or not, she reared her brood in the most approved manner. I could come within two feet of her, and almost touch her with my cane, before she would fly from the nest. How her little round eyes stared at me without so much as a blink! But she was greatly agitated; for her bosom palpitated with the violent throbbing of her heart.
“I’ve found a turtle-dove’s nest on the ground,” said my friend, the young farmer across the fields, one spring day. (No matter about the year of grace, for every year is a year of grace in bird study.) My head was shaken skeptically, and I smiled in a patronizing way, for a turtle-dove’s nest on the ground was an unknown quantity in all my study of birds; but my friend declared, “Honest Injun!” and I left him to his obstinate opinions. But, hold! who, after all, proved to be the donkey? A few days later I myself stumbled upon a turtle-dove’s nest in a clover-field, flat on the ground. Bird students, be careful how you dispute the word of these sharp-eyed tillers of the soil!
But for birds that invariably choose old mother earth for the foundation of their houses, commend me to the American meadow-larks. In this respect they are certainly groundlings, though not in a bad sense. All their nests are constructed on the same general plan, it is true; but the details are quite diverse, proving that architectural designs in the lark guild of builders are almost as numerous as the builders themselves. My young farmer friend found a nest early in the spring, with not a blade of grass near it for protection, while the structure itself was arched over only a very little in the rear. Another nest was situated in a pasture, and was almost as devoid of roofing as was the first nest. But rather late in the spring a nest was found, hidden most deftly in the clover and plantain leaves, which were woven together in the most intricate manner so as to form a canopy over the cosey cot. At one side there was a tunnel, some two feet long, forming the only entrance to the apartment. The nest proper was arched over from the rear for fully one half its width. Not ten feet away was another lark’s nest that was almost wholly exposed to the light and air. In the lark world there is evidently a good deal of room for originality. There seem to be many larks of many minds.
My quest for cuckoos’ nests during the summer of 1892 was well rewarded, but I shall stop to describe only one of these finds. The young birds having left, I lifted the nest from the swaying branch on which it hung, and examined it. The foundation was composed of twigs and sticks intertwined and plaited together with some degree of skill, but it was the lining that stirred my interest. First, it consisted of a number of dead forest leaves from which the cellular texture had been completely stripped, leaving only the petiole, midrib, and veins; underneath this was a more compact carpet of the same kind of leaves, of which the blade, instead of being stripped off, was perforated with innumerable small holes, making them look like extremely fine sieves. In some cases the blades seemed to be split, leaving the veins and veinlets exposed, so that one could trace their intricate net-work. Another cuckoo nest had both the stripped and perforated leaves, but fewer of each kind. Whether the birds themselves did the artistic work on these leaves or not,—that is a question. The stripping of the upper layer of their blades would allow the dust and scaly substance shed by the young birds, to sift through to the second layer, where it would not come in direct contact with the nurslings. The two carpets were laid, no doubt, in the interests of health and cleanliness.
But it is time to turn our attention to the children of the nursery. The life of young birds in the nest,—what a field for study! One thing they learn very early, probably almost as soon as they emerge from the shell; that is, to open their mouths for food. No tutor or professor needed for that! Most young birds soon become quite clamorous for their rations. Lowell must have looked into more than one bird nursery, or he scarcely would have thought of writing the lines,—
“Blind nestlings, unafraid,
Stretch up, wide-mouthed, to every shade
By which their downy dream is stirred,