In Bird Land

by Leander S. Keyser

It may be a somewhat abrupt transition from a crowd to an individual, but the reader must bear in mind that a close logical unity cannot be preserved in a chapter composed of bric-à-brac; and, besides, is not every crowd made up of individuals? How great was my surprise, one summer day, to see a purple grackle stalking about in his regal manner on the flat rocks of a shallow woodland stream, and then suddenly wheel about, pull a crab out of the water, and fly off with it to a log, where he beat it to pieces and devoured it! I doubt if many persons are aware that this bird dines on crab. On the same day another grackle, striding pompously about in the shallow water, suddenly sprang up into the air, some six or eight feet, and caught an insect on the wing. This was a performance on the part of a crow blackbird never before witnessed by me.

One day in the woods my saucy little madcap, the crested titmouse, was tilting about on the twigs of a sapling like a trapeze performer in a circus. Sometimes, he hung lightly to the under side of a spray, and pecked nits and other dainties from the lower surface of a leaf. While doing so, he happened to catch sight of an insect buzzing by; he flung himself at it like a feathered arrow; but for some reason he missed his mark, and the insect, in its efforts to escape, let itself drop toward the ground. An interesting scuffle followed; the titmouse whirled around and around, dashing this way and that like zigzag lightning, in hot pursuit, fluttering his wings very rapidly until he alighted on the ground on the dry leaves, where he at last succeeded in capturing his prize. He gulped it down with a sly wink, as much as to say: “Wasn’t that a clever trick, sir? Beat it if you can!” Then he picked up a seed and flew with it to a twig in a dogwood sapling, where he placed it under his claws, holding it firmly as he nibbled it with his stout little beak. His meal finished, he suddenly pretended to be greatly alarmed at something, called loudly, Chick, chick-a-da! chick-a-da-da! and darted away like an Indian’s arrow.

On the same day a golden-crowned kinglet—my Lilliputian of the woods—surprised me by dropping from a twig above me to the ground, right at my feet, passing within two or three inches of my face. Quick as a flash he leaped to a sapling before me, and I saw that he held a worm in his tiny bill. Of course, that was the prize for which he had dashed in such a headlong way to the ground.

Few birds have charmed me more than the jolly red-headed woodpecker, and many a quaint antic has he performed with all the nonchalance of a sage or a stoic. He has a queer way of taking his meals. The first time it came to my notice I was walking home, on a hot summer day, along a railway, when a red-head bounded across the track before me, holding a ripe, blood-red cherry in his beak. He made a handsome picture with his pure white and velvety black coat and vest, his crimson cap and collar, and his—here my tropes fail, and I am forced to become literal—long, black beak, tipped with the scarlet berry. Swinging gracefully across the railway, he presently alighted on a stake of the meadow fence, where he seemed to place the cherry in a sort of crevice, and then sip from it in a somewhat dainty, half-caressing way, as if it were rarely billsome. My curiosity being excited, I eyed him awhile, and then, determined to reconnoitre, climbed the wire fence over into the meadow, and drove him away from his menu. There, in a small pocket of the fence-stake, apparently hollowed out, at least partially, by the bird himself, lay the cherry, its rind punctured in several places, where the diner-out had thrust in his bill to sip the juicy pulp underneath,—a sort of woodpecker’s table d’hôte. The crevice had a rank odor of cherries dried in the sun,—a proof that it had been used for a dining-table for some time. The legs and wings of several kinds of insects were also strewn about. Since that day I have found many of these pockets in fence-stakes, posts, dead tree-boles, and old stumps, where woodpeckers have placed their dainties to be eaten at their convenience.

You have doubtless, seen these red-heads catching insects on the wing. This they do with as much agility as the wood-pewee, sometimes performing evolutions that are little short of marvellous. From my study window I once watched one of these aeronauts as he sprang from the top of a tall oak-tree in the grove near by, and mounted up, up, up in graceful terraces of flight, until he had climbed at least twice the height of the tree, when he suddenly stopped, poised a moment airily, wheeled about, and plunged downward headlong with a swiftness that made my head swim, closing the descent with a series of bounds, as if he were going down an aerial stairway. Whether he performed this feat in pursuit of an insect, or to display his skill, or only to give vent to his exuberance of feeling, I am unable to say.

The red-head has an odd way of taking a bath during a light shower, which he does by clinging lengthwise to an upright or oblique branch, fluffing up his plumes as much as possible, and then flapping his wings slowly back and forth, thus allowing the refreshing drops thoroughly to percolate and rinse his handsome feathers. And, by the way, the subject of bird baths is one of no small degree of interest to the ogler of the feathered creation. It has been my good fortune to see a brilliant company of warblers of various species—lyrics in color, one might call them—performing their ablutions at a small pond in the woods. How their iridescent hues flashed and danced in the sunshine, as they dipped their dainty bosoms into the water, twinkled their wings, and fluttered their tails, sending the spray like pearl-mist into the air! One sylvan picture like that is worth many a mile’s tramping.

I once saw several myrtle warblers taking a dew-bath. Do you wonder how they did it? They leaped from a twig in the trees upon the dew-covered leaves,—it was early morning,—and fluttered about until their plumes were thoroughly drenched, then flitted to a perch to dry their bedraggled feathers and carefully arrange their dainty toilets.[2]

Besides, it has been my chance to witness my little confidant, Bewick’s wren, taking a dust-bath, which he did in this manner: he would squat flat on his belly on the ground in the lane, completely hiding his feet, and then glide about rapidly and smoothly over the little undulations, stirring the dust in volatile cloudlets. Never have I seen any performance, even in the bird realm so varied and versatile, more absolutely charming; so charming, indeed, that I believe my brief description of it will fittingly bring this rambling chapter on “Bird Curios” to a close.

III.
WINTER FROLICS.

Had Mr. Lowell never written anything but “A Good Word for Winter,” he would still have deserved a place in the front rank of American writers. What a genuine appreciation of Nature, even in her sterner and more unfriendly moods, breathes in every line of his manfully written monograph! Blessed be the man whose love for Nature is so leal and deeply rooted that he can say, “Even though she slay me, yet will I trust in her!” When the storm howls dismally, and the icy gusts strike you rudely in the face; when the cold rain or sleet pelts you spitefully; when, in short, Nature seems to frown and scold and bluster,—the loyal lover of her feels no waning of affection, but knows that beneath all her bluster and apparent harshness she carries a tender, maternal heart in her bosom that responds to his wooing. No, Thomson is in error when he says that winter is the “inverted year.” Winter, as well as summer, is the year right end up, standing squarely on its feet; or, if it does sometimes turn a somersault, it quickly wheels about again into an upright position. Nor is Cotton’s dictum correct that winter is “our mortal enemy.” It has been much misunderstood, and therefore much abused, for there are persons who will ever and anon malign that which is above their comprehension.