During subsequent visits to the “Bay-gall” I met many interesting birds, several of which were new to me. Occasionally I would startle a Chuck-will’s-widow from its noonday slumbers on some mossy knoll, and if a chance shot through the leaves succeeded in stopping its erratic, bat-like flight, there was the pleasure of smoothing its soft plumage and admiring the rich brown coloring before consigning the bird to the paper wrapper that formed its temporary tomb. I believe I never shot one without indulging myself in this way. There is much to be learned, too, from the examination of a freshly-killed bird. For instance, I had never known the wonderful beauty of this Goat-sucker’s eye until I held the bird in my hand, and the size of its mouth would hardly be suspected from the examination of a dried skin.
On April 17 the Acadian Flycatchers arrived. I was first made aware of their presence by their emphatic queep’ éep which so closely resembled that of Traill’s Flycatcher that I immediately suspected the identity of the singers, although it was some time before I could get a sight at one. They had another note also which was much like the whistling of wings. I afterwards satisfied myself that this sound was a vocal one.
I never left the “Bay-gall” without reluctance in the days when I was perhaps the only invader of its secret recesses; and now, in recalling it, the feeling is scarcely less strong. But the country about St. Mary’s held other attractions which must not be neglected. The open space surrounding the town was bordered on the north by a pine forest that stretched an indefinite number of miles into the interior, and my walks often tended in this direction. Following some grass-grown road that wandered aimlessly among the trees, I often paused to watch the gambols of the Brown-headed Nuthatches which fairly swarmed in these woods. They are exceedingly social little birds, and it was no uncommon thing, even in the middle of their breeding season, to see five or six rollicking together. In their motions they closely resemble Sitta canadensis, and they have the same habit of exploring the ends of the pine branches and hanging head downward, like Titmice, among the tufts of pine needles. But they are decidedly more active, and their notes are shriller, more varied and altogether unlike those of either the Red or White-bellied species. Whick-whick-whee’e’e’ whick-whicker-whicker is the usual utterance, but when several come together their shrill excited piping altogether baffles description. These little companies were by no means wholly composed of Nuthatches, but usually included a more or less numerous escort of Pine Warblers, Bluebirds, Titmice and Woodpeckers. As the motley troop rambled through the woods, its members were continually chasing one another from tree to tree, chirping, calling and singing as their various moods dictated. I noticed that the Bluebirds usually led the van, while the Woodpeckers invariably brought up the rear.
Unlike the Red-bellied, Downy, Hairy and Golden-winged species, which inhabited all sorts of timber, the Red-cockaded Woodpecker was exclusively a bird of the pines. It was not common about St. Mary’s and I had difficulty in getting as many specimens as I wanted. Its notes to my ear almost exactly resembled those of Sitta pusilla. On the 1st of May I started a female from her nesting-hole, which was about thirty feet above the ground in a large and apparently perfectly sound pine. I was unable to climb the tree but the bird acted as if her eggs had already been laid.
The pine lands of the South have an open park-like character that is a continual surprise to one accustomed only to New England forests. The trees rarely stand in close proximity to one another, and they are often so widely scattered that the general effect is that of an opening rather than a forest. Unless a hummock interrupts the view, the eye may sometimes roam for half a mile in every direction over a perfectly level plain, interspersed with occasional trees whose tufted heads throw waving shadows upon the bright green beds of saw-palmetto that cover most of the ground beneath. Were it not for the half-wild cattle that range at will through the country, the palmetto would probably usurp every inch of ground; but these creatures keep it within reasonable limits, and many spaces of closely cropped grass and stunted blueberries intervene. About such places I used to find the Bachman’s Finch, a retiring little bird which might easily be overlooked by one unacquainted with its habit of skulking among the herbage and lying concealed until nearly trodden on. But no one with the slightest ear for bird music can long remain in ignorance of its presence after the breeding season has set in, for the male possesses vocal powers of a very rare order. His song is a prolonged, leisurely chant composed of several distinct bars or sets of notes, with brief pauses between, as if the bird stopped to take breath. The final notes of each bar have sometimes a rising, sometimes a falling, inflection, and the tone is varied in the most subtle manner. Now it has a full bell-like ring that seems to fill the air around; next it is soft and low and inexpressibly tender; now it is clear again, but so modulated that the sound seems to come from a great distance. The whole performance is very simple and I hardly know the secret of its charm. To be fully appreciated it should be heard in the soft twilight of an April evening, when the still woods are filled with dusky shadows. At such times it has moved me more deeply than I care to confess.
The male always sings from an elevated perch, usually a dead twig close to the trunk of a southern pine. He sits perfectly motionless and is unaccountably hard to see. I have often stood directly beneath one for several minutes, vainly straining my eyes in the direction from whence the sound came, and perhaps finally discovered him within ten feet of my head in plain view. The ventriloquous character of many of his notes increases this difficulty. If disturbed in the midst of his song, he pitches to the ground beneath and at once seeks shelter in the grass.
Another characteristic inhabitant of these grassy openings was the Meadow Lark. It was much tamer than our northern bird, and its notes had a wild, ringing inflection that harmonized well with the surroundings.
In the thicker groves I often heard the voice of the Summer Tanager (Pyranga æstiva). His song is rich, flowing, and not unlike that of the Rose-breasted Grosbeak, although some of its notes recall those of the Robin. The call-note used by both sexes is a peculiar chuck’l-chuckl’ut. The bright colors of the male make him a conspicuous object among the branches of the southern pine which, at least in Georgia, is his favorite tree.
The Yellow-throated Warbler also was sure to be met with in these walks. His song to my ear has a far-a-way sound, even when the bird is near at hand. It is simple and monotonous, but nevertheless sweet and plaintive. This bird has all the habits of the Pine Warbler, with which it often associates.
A totally different phase of bird life was presented when, as was often the case, I visited the plantations. The fields themselves rarely offered anything more attractive than Yellow-winged Sparrows, Grass Finches and, late in April, migratory troops of Bobolinks that settled among the last year’s weeds for a moment before resuming their northward journey with rollicking snatches of song. But the fence corners and similar neglected places around the outskirts of the cultivated lands were filled with bushes over which trailed Cherokee roses, trumpet-vines and other luxuriant creepers. In these places I was sure to find Mockingbirds, Cardinals, Catbirds, Brown Thrushes, White-eyed Vireos and the brilliant little Painted Buntings.