It is assumed that the bee, the pigeon, and some variety of ducks, rise and circle in the air to leave landmarks "out of sight," so that this remarkable instinct may work more freely. Would it not be well to apply natural laws to these cases? Suppose we infer that these animals rise and circle to find familiar landmarks, just as a human being would act if he had the power of flight and had lost his way. Human beings climb trees, when lost, to look for landmarks. Why should we deny to bees and birds the very methods we make use of whenever the occasion requires?
As to bees, I do know that they circle to find landmarks. After years spent in hunting, or "lining bees," as we call the sport in Maine, I can speak with no uncertain knowledge. The power to circle in search of landmarks is limited. If a bee is carried too far from its hive, beyond its power to circle and find landmarks, it is lost and never returns to the hive. I have proved this time after time. The carrier-pigeon's power to circle is a most remarkable feature, but nevertheless it has its limit. Pigeons that are used for long-distance flight are trained over the whole distance in short flights, so the bird may become familiar with landmarks.
Our dogs and cats that return to us when carried sightless to a distance, may return through the sense of smell. Cape Ann fishermen tell me that dogs scent the land fifty miles at sea. If we grant to animals the power of observation which we possess, and then take into consideration their keen sense of smell, we can account for many things that seem mysterious. However, dogs and cats are lost every day in the week.
Nest building is said to be instinctive, but I shall have to take exceptions to the statement. I do not deny that the art is hereditary, and that a young bird confined might essay to build something for a nest, but I do deny that the selection of straws is under the influence of instinct. I believe young birds examine the nest in which they are reared intelligently, and are educated by their parents in part in the selection of material. I once saw an old catbird give her young daughter a lesson in nest building. The young catbird had carried a large quantity of rootlets from my garden to a patch of catbrier. She had placed it so loosely that a good breeze would have upset the whole affair. While I was looking on wondering what the bird would do if the wind should rise, the old catbird, the young bird's mother, happened along to inspect the work.
The moment she saw the shaky structure she tumbled it on to the ground. Then she laid a foundation that no breeze could dislodge. Her selection of rootlets long enough to bridge the spaces was something wonderful. I did not see her make a mistake. If she picked up a rootlet a hair's breadth short, she dropped it for another of the right length. After she had laid a secure foundation, she left the young bird to her own skill and judgment. When the bird had completed the nest, it was as large as a four-quart measure. It was made up of varied materials. Newspaper and cloth afforded the larger amount. A departure was the skin of a garter snake woven into the brim. A few years ago I found a catbird's nest ornamented with a snake-skin, and the two instances are the only ones of all my observations.
WOOD THRUSH.