Partridges are less numerous around my home than they were twenty years ago, and their habits have undergone a very decided change. Then they usually took to a tree when flushed; now they seldom light on a tree, and take much longer flights. When hunting in Canada last fall I found that the partridges were very tame, and simply ran away from me, or if pressed flew into trees near by and waited for their heads to be taken off with rifle balls.
I notice considerable difference in the shade coloring of the partridge, some being much darker than others, but all have the same markings. The partridge is omnivorous, and, like man and the pig, he eats almost everything. In the winter he lives upon the buds of trees, and many a bird has lost his life while filling his crop from this source, as he is then an easy mark for the hunter, and I have seen the marks of his bill on the carcasses of animals. He is fond of blackberries, and sportsmen often visit blackberry patches when looking for him in the early fall, but I have been surprised to find that when feeding in a blackberry patch he apparently shows no preference for the ripe berries, filling his crop with all kinds. A fact about the partridge which I find is not generally known is, while in summer its toes are plain, like the toes of a chicken, in the winter they are bordered with a stiff hairy fringe that gives it support on the snow, having the same effect as the meshes of our snowshoes. This is a fact of considerable interest, for it seems to have a bearing upon the theory that there is a tendency in animals to develop conditions favorable to their environment. Under this theory one might hope to find a development of a substitute for a snowshoe on a non-migratory bird whose habits keep it largely upon the ground, while no such development would be expected on a bird that leaves us in the winter for warmer climes.
In this connection I would say that while few of our native birds change the color of their plumage as an adaptation to the seasons, our pretty thistle bird, or American goldfinch, undergoes a radical change. In summer he has a bright yellow body with black markings and a black head, while in winter his plumage is all pale brown or sparrow-color, and we often fail to recognize in our somber winter resident the brilliant goldfinch of our summer. These little birds are gregarious in the winter, and as they fly in small flocks into the trees by the roadside they are frequently mistaken for sparrows, and in fact are usually called tree sparrows.
There are few things connected with the study of natural history more interesting than the tendency in animals to develop conditions suitable to their environment, and it is surprising to see for how long a time an acquired habit will sometimes survive after its usefulness has ceased.
The common chimney swallows always build their nests in chimneys that are unused during their breeding season. They make a semicircular nest of sticks, which they glue to the inside wall of the chimney with a secretion from their mouths. It is interesting to see the swallows gather the sticks for their nests, for they do not alight on the ground, but, while flying, break off dead twigs from trees without stopping in their flight.
This habit of building in chimneys must have been acquired in a comparatively short time, for there were no chimneys in this country before the arrival of the white man, and for a long time afterward the settler had but one chimney in his house, which must have been used, at least for cooking purposes, in the summer. So perfect is this habit that the swallow looks and acts as though he were made for the chimney; his color is a sooty black, so that he does not tarnish his coat by rubbing against the chimney walls; the feathers of his tail end in hard spikes, that he can use them to prop himself against the wall. I have been interested on a summer evening watching these swallows in hundreds circling around a church chimney in Plattsburg, until finally the birds in the center began to enter the chimney, the circle growing smaller and smaller as they apparently poured down in the vortex of a whirlpool of swallows. Many birds have acquired a habit of associating with man, and we rarely find them, except during the season of their flight, far away from houses.
The barn swallows always place their nests under the eaves or cornices of some building, usually a barn. These nests are built of mud gathered by the birds from wet places on the ground, and carried in their mouths to the sites chosen by them. Many of our farmers have an unkind feeling for the barn swallows, as they think the mud-daubed nests on the new red paint are not an artistic addition; but if our cattle could give an intelligent opinion they would welcome the birds, for all swallows are entirely insectivorous, and they must eat many flies and mosquitoes that otherwise would be left to torment our animals.
Birds that build in inaccessible places seem to rely upon that for security, and apparently make little effort to conceal their nests, while those building on or near the ground are generally careful to hide them, and they display considerable cunning in preventing discovery. Robins, for instance, after the young are hatched, never drop the eggshells over the side of the nests to the ground, where they would attract attention and cause one to look directly overhead and thus find the nest, but take the broken shells in their bills and carry them off, dropping them while flying. Frequently birds are very shy and easily frightened away from their nests, but after they are well established they sometimes show a good deal of tenacity in staying by them until the young are ready to leave.
Some years ago we opened an old ore mine, where a pair of phœbe birds had placed their nest on a shelf a few feet overhead, a projecting rock protecting it from the flying stones of the blasts that were fired several times a day, and the men were working so near that they could almost touch it with their hands. These birds did not desert their nests until the young were old enough to leave. The site was not used the following year, as is usually the case with the phœbe bird.
No bird has insinuated himself into our affections more deeply than the bluebird. He charms us as he flits through the air like a painted arrow, reflecting the sunlight from the metallic luster of his wings, while he pours out his inspired song “in notes as sweet as angels’ greetings when they meet.” He comes to us before the unfolding of the first bud of spring, sings to us until our hills and mountains are covered with the richness of their summer verdure, and stays with us until this verdure is changed to all the beauty of its autumnal glory. I am very sorry, but I believe our bluebirds are gradually though steadily decreasing in numbers. Some years ago two pairs nested in our yard, one pair in a hole in an old apple tree and one pair in a box, but for several years these nesting places have been unoccupied, and I know of a number of other former nesting places that have been vacant for years.