In the grass or crouched down close to the brown earth and gray weed stems we see another of our friends. With a “chip” he jumps up out of the grass and is away before you can see what particular shade of gray or brown is most conspicuous. However, he doesn’t fly far, but suddenly drops into some inviting tuft, spreading out his tail like a fan as he does so, as if on purpose to show you its margin of white. This is the only one of our common sparrows that shows the white feather—the vesper sparrow, or bay-winged bunting. The field sparrow, as one authority says, had better be called the tree sparrow, because of his marked fondness for bushes and shrubs, but both of the former’s names fit; he is rightly called the vesper sparrow from his delightful custom of singing his choicest hymns to the dying sun, and bay-winged bunting from the conspicuous patch of bay or rufous on the lesser wing coverts.
Sometimes in company with the vespers we see the slate-colored junco, or snow bird; at other times a gorgeous, distinguished looking sparrow, named from his partiality to these broad, low fields, the savanna sparrow. He is the dandy of this winter resort. His plaid coat and striped shirt eclipse the somber colors of all his cousins. The epaulettes of gold on his shoulders indicate his high rank; but for all that he is no dude, for he works as hard as anybody to find his own breakfast and enjoys it all the more that he eats his crickets in the sweat of his brow. A simple “chip” is the only remark he makes to us or to his companions as he runs along the cotton rows in quest of food. Ornithologists, however, tell us that up in Canada in his summer home he sings a weak, grasshopper-like song in marked contrast to the musical efforts of his neutral tinted cousin, the vesper.
The fields of broom sedge are the favorite haunts of one of the birds whose cheerful music and winning ways help to make June in the North “the high tide of the year, when all of life that has ebbed away comes rippling back into each inlet and creek and bay.” I never see the meadow lark or hear his cheery whistle that I do not smell the blossoming clover and hear the ringing “spink, spank, spink” of the bobolink or catch the subtle suggestion of strawberries that comes floating to my nostrils on the warm June breeze. In a thirty minutes’ walk through the sedge I have flushed as many as two or three hundred of these birds. They are called “field larks” by the negroes, who regard them as legitimate game. The lark’s whistle—it can hardly be called a song—contains a bit of good advice habitually disregarded by the negroes. They interpret it as “laziness will kill you.”
The colored people have an ornithology all their own, in which their own observations are strangely mingled with superstition. They tell us of two kinds of mockingbirds, “de real” and “de French” varieties. The real mockingbird deserves an article all to himself. His winning ways, playful disposition and ability as a singer give him a place second to none among our American birds. I am pleased to see the spirit of Americanism growing in our literature, that conventional allusions to the skylark and the nightingale, birds few of us have ever seen or heard, are becoming rarer and rarer, while those to the robin, the mockingbird and the wood thrush are becoming more frequent. The mockingbird, like other singers, does his best during the courting and nesting seasons, but does not confine his concerts to that joyous time. On warm days in winter he loves to perch in the cedars and give his listeners a sample of what he can do, an earnest of the floods of melody that spring will bring. Balmy air, green of cedar and water oak and bird music disarrange our mental almanac. Even the nodding narcissus contributes to the illusion that it is not February, but May.
The “French mockingbird” is no mockingbird at all, but the logger-headed shrike, or butcher bird. Like some people, he tries to occupy a front seat, even if his music wins for him one of the lowest seats of the choir. A beanpole in the garden, the topmost wire of the fence and the top of a solitary shrub or tree are alike acceptable to him, for it’s all one to him if he gets to see all that is going on in his little world. No doubt he does do mischief during the nesting season, when eggs or tender nestlings are easier to find or more acceptable to his fastidious palate than the mice and insects which compose his winter diet. Just now he is a most pleasing bit of decided color, black, white and blue-gray, very refreshing to the eye, amid the browns and grays of last year’s vegetation.
When a cold wave comes, what a scurrying takes place! Each winter visitor packs his grip and strikes for the nearest shelter, be it canebrake or swampy jungle, where tall grass and cat-tails above, briars and water below, make a retreat impregnable to assault from the enemy flying through the air or creeping along the ground. If the cold wave continues until the ground freezes the birds suffer. At such times half-starved robins gorge themselves on the berries of the China tree (Melia azederach) and have a general “drunk.” They never eat many of the berries unless they are the only provisions obtainable, unless driven to it by stress of the weather, an excuse for drunks that cannot always be truthfully given by the lords of creation. While the silly birds are sitting around trying to throw off the effects of their debauch an enemy comes upon the scene. The negroes take advantage of the robin’s disability to manage his own affairs and feast high on roast robin, fried robin, stewed robin, etc., much to the detriment of next spring’s music in Northern fields and orchards.
The warm breath of the Gulf steals in upon our little world and a change comes. The birds remember that they are due in a few days in an Ohio orchard or on an Illinois prairie, so they pack and go. The allurements of a Southern spring, with all its fragrance and charm, do not hold them. Without a goodby they are gone, not to return till once more
“Frosts and shortening days portend
The aged year is near his end.”
James Stephen Compton.