SPRING NOTES FROM FEATHERED THROATS.
IN NEW JERSEY.
That individual unaffected by the first fluttering wings of returning spring migrants is an anomaly indeed. He must ever have been secluded beyond reach of trill or glint of the feathery kingdom, or else is pitifully invulnerable to one of nature’s chiefest charms. For who, having listened to the enraptured love-notes and witnessed the extravagant devotion, intermingled with drollest buffoonery, during the progress of some field or forest courtship, is beyond feeling interest and pleasure in these half-human and wholly unique performances? Or who has not felt a thrill of admiration, to be followed by one of commiseration, when one of the hunters of the air made his terrific plunge, hurtling down like an animated catapult, to strike his quarry ere it found cover in wood or thicket? To all those having formed some degree of bird companionship and who live where winter robs them of those friends of the fields and woods—to such returning spring would be incomplete without their coming. The earliest break in winter’s shackles tensions their ears to listen for the first returning migrant’s note. Of these the last to leave and first to brave the still vigorous, retreating winter gales is Sir Crow. Painted by popular disfavor even blacker than he merits, his departing caw, mingled with the wild goose’s “haunks,” as they winged southward, barely escaping the first cold wave. His caw has mellowed with his sunny vacation. In place of the discordant medley echoing from the final grove convention will come his spring notes, cawing a domestic cadence half musical, suggesting a chuckle of delight. By twos and threes these black-coated scouts struggle back to former frequentings. In early February, perhaps, when the ambitious sugar-maker is trying for his first “run,” he there catches his first glimpse of blue-black sheen as the northward flyer toilsomely sweeps through the naked trees. At this inhospitable season all of his proverbial cunning stands him in good stead, and truly he is a veritable solon of bird wisdom. Nature seemingly compensated for his gloomy dress and awkward flight by bestowing almost incredible sagacity behind his unattractive exterior.
We need not yet listen for other sweeter-voiced arrivals, but while waiting may give ear to some stay-at-home all-winter residents, the chickadee and his crested relative, the tufted titmouse, cheery chirpers and whistlers both, unconquered by the fiercest boreal blasts; the quiet-voiced and colored junco, the industrious creeper and nuthatch, not forgetting that hide-and-go-seek climber the downy woodpecker and his warmer colored, hairy relative. The woodpeckers, with their cheerful taps, trills and chatter, have done much to dispel the gloom of drear and frosty winter days.
But one is forgotten who in nature absolutely refuses to remain unnoticed—Sir Blue Jay—though an acknowledged cannibal and highwayman, he is withal so jaunty and attractive in everything but his voice and his habits as to convince his beholders that he is not half bad. With February’s closing days we may listen for the hardier representatives of the sparrow family, those twin aristocrats, the white-crowned and white-throated beauties, the more timid and ruddier fox, and the well-known song sparrow. Being unobtrusive in both song and garb, their first greeting may be missed, but the trained ear will soon catch the cheerful notes from hedge or brush pile, elicited by a chasing gleam of sunshine. These sweet-toned singers will prove a welcome contrast to the tiresome, incessant, complaining notes of their English cousins, who have spent the winter at the granary door or skirmishing in the garbage on the city streets. The sparrows are the beginner’s despair in ornithology, but are as interesting in habits, song and appearance as they are numerous and confusing. The observer who can readily distinguish them at all, from the familiar household “chippy” to the siskins, linnets and longspurs who frequent our latitudes only as erratic winter visitors, is truly to be envied. With March comes that steadfast commoner the robin and his warmer breasted thrush cousin, the bluebird. The former, with his matter-of-fact twitter of greeting, soon supplements it with a bar of his hearty if somewhat unpolished song. But the less intrepid bluebird will wait for a south wind’s caress ere his gurgle of delight will float earward as airily as his hovering flight.
Now come two black-coated cousins, the purple grackle and shoulder-strapped redwing of the blackbird family. Field hunters like the robin, but unlike the thrushes, when on the ground they are staid walkers instead of hoppers. These dusky beauties no sooner announce their arrival with songless cackling notes than they hurry away to inspect their last year’s nesting haunts, where scrambling clamor ensues for the most desirable locations. Like the crow they lose but little time in awaiting fine weather before preparing for housekeeping. Even before April’s soft showers commence falling, their bristling stick nests are in readiness, as are the crows’, jays’ and hawks’, while the owls’ wide-eyed nestlings are even then becoming fluffy balls of feathers in their better sheltered hollow-tree nests. But we must pass with but a word of greeting to the arrivals, would we keep pace with their increasing numbers. Now listen to the purple finch as he perches on highest twig, proclaiming his arrival with no uncertain sound. A very torrent of bubbling melody is he, though his breakfast may still be snow-enshrouded below. While he rests may be heard the meadowlark’s tremulous, plaintive diminuendo, as he alights from his halting, uncertain flight. Soon will follow the phœbe’s name-calling, tail-wagging cry and the barn swallow’s mumbling, metallic squeaking. His cliff or eaves-nesting cousin will a little later add his rasping notes as he repairs his plastered nest. In contrast to the swallow’s rhythmic chatter comes the oriole’s bugle call and flute-like whistle, which at evening was silent, but morning finds vocal. With increasing numbers, as the Mayflowers appear, come the crow-chasing kingbird and his twin-named fish-catcher. The first, with happy tinkling notes, the second with bill-chattering rattle. Again, morning hears the bobolink’s ecstatic songburst of tumultuous melody. Like ships he “passes in the night” and heralds his coming as no other can. Now the whippoorwill proclaims his apt naming, as evening closes in, while his nighthawk cousin booms an accompaniment as he wheels through the air above. The wood pigeon’s lament comes throbbing through the warm morning air, confirming his right to his other and better known “mourning dove” title. To drown the pigeon’s dirge-like plaint may now be heard the rollicking song of the goldfinch, his song and flight dipping in unison as he goes his careless way. With still another contrast comes the clucking cuckoo’s grumble as if in excuse for his tardy arrival. Now listen, for the chorus is complete! Though but few have been named, they are best known and with the unnamed larger half compose nature’s magnificent if sometimes inharmonious symphony. Among those unnamed are to be found many fully the equals of those so imperfectly represented in the preceding pen pictures. In fact, the wood thrushes and warblers unmentioned are as finished vocal performers as any of those heard in the open. Also in beauty and brilliancy of coloring some of the shyer and more silent wood residents eclipse their brethren of the fields. But birds are not learned in a day. Later on the student’s eye and ear will begin to recognize such flashy men of color as Messrs. Tanager, Towhee, Redstart, Waxwings, Redpoll and scores of others making up the lengthy list of warblers, thrushes, wrens, flycatchers and others less well known, especially by voice, which is often discordant in proportion to attractiveness of plumage. These fragmentary glimpses and sound pictures of our flitting friends have been attempted with the intention of introducing them to the ear rather than to the eye. Too much importance is often attached to the appearance to the neglect of aural attractions. Nothing can exceed the pleasure afforded the enthusiast in ornithology when able to readily distinguish his feathered friends by songs, notes, trills, and twitters making up their repertoires. As their voices greet him when awakening, no calendar is needed to trace the advancing seasons. The new voices added to the morning chorus and its diminishing volume as summer departs gives audible record to the ear familiar with bird-voice harmony. Again, when abroad in pursuit of duty or pleasure, a single note is sufficient to introduce to his ear a new or old-time friend. He well knows the first glimpse will disclose a dull or bright-hued coat, whose owner’s eyes are even then scanning him from some well concealed cover. If the learner would fully appreciate the charms of his bird acquaintances he should study each individual until known not only by appearance while at rest, but in every light, shade, attitude and movement, and he should study his voice until it is recognizable whether in full-throated song or modulated call or whistle. An occasional hour or vacation may accomplish much, and that often at our very doors; but to know these breezy, beautiful habitants aright city walls must be left behind.
Museum specimens, except for reference, must be shunned as inert, lifeless and voiceless. The bird only known by appearance is but half known. When known and understood their observers become their champions whose arms and voices will ever be raised to prevent their wanton destruction.
B. F. W. Thorpe.
THE SPIRIT OF SPRING.
It came to me this morning, in my room, and filled my whole being with a subtle feeling of delight and mysterious glad expectancy. When I went downstairs they told me that it was colder than yesterday; that the thermometer registered 14 degrees above zero. But what care I for the thermometer? What does it know about spring?
Spring is a spirit which takes possession of the air, be it hot or cold, and makes one’s heart sing for joy.