Bulletin of the Nuttall Ornithological Club

by Nuttall Ornithological Club

Next to the always self-assertive Mockingbird the White-eyed Vireo was perhaps the most conspicuous inhabitant of such thickets. Not that he was often seen, but at almost any time of the day one might hear his emphatic, jerky little strain, coming from half a dozen points at once. I noticed that the note varied considerably from that which we hear in New England, and, moreover, scarcely two of the southern birds sang exactly alike. Some individuals even seemed to have a talent for mimicry. One that I remember imitated the note of the Loggerhead Shrike so closely that I was completely deceived. The nest of this bird is a wonderfully delicate and beautiful structure. One that I got at St. Mary’s contained its complement of four eggs on April 26. I discovered it twelve days previously when the birds were busily employed on the framework. The male took an equal part in this task and it was amusing to see him try to sing with his bill full of moss or bark.

The Painted Buntings or Nonpareils, as they are universally called by the townspeople, arrived April 23 and through the remainder of the month were abundant. I used to find them in flocks about the openings where they spent much of their time on the ground. They were timid rather than shy, flying to the thickets upon the slightest alarm, but when once conscious of being pursued, it was difficult to get a shot at one. The brilliant plumage of the adult male makes him a conspicuous object either on the ground or in green foliage, but it is no easy matter to see one among the flowers of the trumpet-vine where they often seek refuge, apparently fully conscious of the protection afforded by the clusters of scarlet blossoms. The young males during the first year are colored precisely like the females. They sing, and for aught I know, breed, while in this condition. The song is a low, pleasing warble very un-Finch-like in character. I should compare it to that of the Canada Flycatcher, but the notes are less emphatic, though equally disconnected. The bird almost invariably sings in the depths of some thicket, and its voice ceases at the slightest noise. Both sexes have a sharp chirp of alarm which closely resembles that of the Indigo Finch. Most of the Nonpareils left St. Mary’s by May 1, but a few pairs remained up to the time of my departure, when they were apparently preparing to breed. Another familiar inhabitant of these thickets was the Towhee Bunting. Two distinct races of this bird were to be met with during the same walk, but never, so far as my observation went, actually in company. The Red-eyed or northern form, erythrophthalmus proper, apparently occurred only as a winter visitor, while var. alleni represented the resident or local race. The latter was chiefly a bird of the oak scrub, although it was also to be found in open pine woods where it haunted the beds of saw-palmetto. Its note differed widely from that of erythrophthalmus; the “chewink” was shorter and harsher, and in addition to this cry, both sexes occasionally uttered a sharp, clear whistle that sounded like a sportsman’s call to his dog. I am not sure that I heard the song, or at least identified it. These Towhees were hard to obtain, for they were shy and retiring, rarely venturing far from their secure retreats. The irides of all the specimens that I examined were brownish-yellow or dull, opaque amber; never white, as is said to be the case with examples from Southern Florida.

It would be difficult to find a plantation in the South that did not have one or more pairs of Mockingbirds. About St. Mary’s they were especially abundant, and nowhere more so than in the gardens of the village. Here they were half-domesticated, building their nests in the shrubbery that surrounded the houses, and hopping about, like Robins, upon the grass-plats and gravelled walks. An orange tree directly in front of the windows of my room was appropriated by a remarkably fine singer. There is a noticeable difference in the performances of most males, but the voice of this bird possessed a compass and perfection of tone that I have never heard equalled. His repertoire included the notes of nearly all the birds of the surrounding region besides many of the characteristic village sounds, and most of the imitations were simply perfect. Moreover he was continually adding to his accomplishments. An interesting instance of this occurred one afternoon, when several of us were sitting on the veranda. A Greater Yellow-leg passing over the town was attracted by my answering whistle, and circled several times above the house reiterating his mellow call. The Mockingbird up to this time had been singing almost uninterruptedly, but at the sound of these strange notes he relapsed into silence and retreated into the thickest foliage of his favorite tree; after a while we heard him trying them in an undertone. The first note came pretty readily, but the falling inflection of the succeeding three troubled him. Whenever I ventured to prompt he would listen attentively, and at the next attempt show an evident improvement. Finally he abandoned the task, as we thought in despair, and at sunset that evening for the first and only time during my stay his voice was missing in the general chorus. But at daylight the next morning the garden rang with a perfect imitation of the Yellow-leg’s whistle. He had mastered it during the night, and ever afterwards it was his favorite part. The discomfiture of the rival males in the neighborhood was as amusing as it was unmistakable. Each in turn tried it, but not one of them succeeded.

Another frequenter of the village shrubbery was the Orchard Oriole. His flute-like voice, which bears some resemblance to that of the Fox Sparrow, could be heard almost any time after April 10. Our garden offered especial attractions to these Orioles, for the hedge of wild olive trees that bordered it on two sides was overrun with Cherokee roses and trumpet-vines among which they found a congenial shelter. They were fond, too, of sipping the honey from the trumpet-flowers, and it was no uncommon thing to see half a dozen collected about a single cluster. In this occupation they were almost invariably joined by numerous Hummingbirds;—and such a group, with its setting of green leaves and scarlet and white blossoms, formed the prettiest picture imaginable.

To our garden also came the Blue Jays; bold, familiar birds very different in bearing from the outcast that boys and would-be sportsmen pursue so relentlessly in the northern woods. Everywhere at the South this Jay is as much an inhabitant of the cultivated grounds as of the forests, and if not actually encouraged, it is universally tolerated. In Jacksonville I have heard them screaming among the live-oaks that shade the busiest streets, and at St. Mary’s they were scarcely less tame and confiding than the Mockingbirds.

The average Georgian is indifferent to the shooting of most of the birds that inhabit his plantation; but it is little short of a crime in his eyes to take the life of either a Turkey Buzzard or a Mockingbird. The killing of one of the former is considered an offence against the State, which protects them on account of their services as scavengers. But the Mockingbirds are treasured as personal property, and any interference with them is sure to be promptly resented. The natural result of this sentiment is that both species are universally abundant and familiar. The Buzzards, especially, are ubiquitous. At all hours of the day, in every kind of weather, they float over the cities, villages, plantations, pine woods, hummocks, cypress swamps, salt marshes and even the beaches of the Sea-islands. Go where you will, it is almost impossible to look upward without seeing the picturesque forms drifting about in the sky. Some are soaring almost beyond the reach of human vision. Others at a lower elevation cross and recross each other in interminable mazy lines; while still others glide across the landscape passing just above the tops of the trees. Both species occurred at St. Mary’s, but the Black Vulture was much the less common. It associated freely with the Turkey Buzzards, among which it could be recognized at almost any distance by its different color, shape and manner of flying. The tail is so short as to be altogether out of proportion with the body and wings, while its square tip gives it the appearance of having been cut off. This bird’s flight is heavy, awkward and generally straight forward, although it occasionally soars. The wings are flapped every few seconds in a hurried, nervous manner that seems to betoken a lack of power or confidence. The flight of the Turkey Buzzard, on the contrary, is a picture of repose in motion. The bird rarely moves its wings, save to alter their inclination, and its dark form drifts through miles of space without the slightest perceptible effort. The impression of entire freedom from exertion which its movements convey, is curiously in accord with the general enervating influence of southern life and its surroundings. Its impassive flight may perhaps be regarded as the most characteristic feature of a southern landscape, as it certainly is one of the most attractive. But the observer who would keep this impression untarnished will be wise to refrain from looking too closely into the useful side of the bird’s character.

The Buzzard’s flight will not bear comparison however with that of the Swallow-tailed Kite. The latter is equally easy and graceful of wing, and, in addition, its movements are characterized by a certain dash and energy of purpose that one looks for in vain in the calm, emotionless flight of the Vulture. I hardly know a more attractive sight than that presented by one of these Kites playing about an opening in the woods. For a moment it floats motionless, as if suspended by an invisible wire; the next, it glides close over the ground crossing and recrossing every yard of space. The long, thin wings, firmly set, cleave the air like knife-blades and the forked tail, spread to its fullest, is inclined to one side or the other as the bird changes its swift course. When it turns, the snowy head and breast are contrasted against the green background and its steel blue back glances in the sunlight. Finally rising to a level with the tree-tops it is gone as it came, like a beautiful vision.

But my space is exhausted, although many interesting birds remain to be mentioned. Perhaps at some future time I may take up the threads where this sketch leaves them.

NOTES ON SOME OF THE RARER BIRDS OF SOUTHERN NEW BRUNSWICK.

BY MONTAGUE CHAMBERLAIN.