When the February sun waves his golden baton over the marshes of western Washington, they yield up a chorus of wren song which is exceeded only by that of the frogs. The frogs, to be sure, have the advantage, in that their choral offering has greater carrying power; but the Wrens at close quarters leave you in no doubt that the palm belongs to them. One hesitates to call the medley of clicking, buzzing, and sputtering, which welters in the reeds, music; but if one succeeds in catching sight of a Tulé Wren, holding on for dear life to a cat-tail stem, and vibrating like a drill-chuck with the effort of his impassioned utterance, he feels sure that music is at least intended.
Wrens are ever busy bodies, and if they could not sing or chatter, or at least scold, they surely would explode. It is a marvel, too, that they find so much to interest them in mere reeds, now green, now brown, set above a foot or so of stagnant water. But, bless you! Do not waste your sympathies upon them. They have neighbors,—Red-wings, Yellow-throats, and the like—and is it not the gossips of the little village who are most exercised over their neighbors’ affairs?
It seems probable that our Tulé Wrens are largely resident. Certainly they are abundant in the more sheltered marshes in winter; and, since the species does not extend very far northward, it is possibly not too much to assume that our birds live and die in a single swamp. They are, as a consequence, very much mixed up on their seasons, and I have heard a swamp in full song in November.
Nesting in the South Tacoma swamp, where several scores at least may be found, begins the last week in March, and full sets of eggs may certainly be found by the first week in April. But “decoys” are, of course, the rule. In a day Mr. Bowles found fifty-three nests, only three of which held eggs or young. At least two broods are raised in a season.
The eggs, usually five or six in number, are so overlaid with tiny dots as to appear of an almost uniform hair brown in color, very dark, except occasionally in the case of the last laid egg. The sitting bird must subject her eggs to frequent turning in the nest, for they become highly polished during incubation.
No. 118.
SEATTLE WREN.
A. O. U. No. 719 e. Thryomanes bewickii calophonus Oberholser.
Description.—Adults: Above, dark olive-brown, or warm sepia brown with an olive tinge; the rump with downy, concealed, white spots; wings showing at least traces of dusky barring,—sometimes complete on tertials; tail blackish on concealed portions, distinctly and finely barred with black on exposed portions; the outer pairs of feathers white-tipped and showing white barring, incipient or complete on terminal third; a narrow white superciliary stripe, and an indistinct dark stripe thru eye; underparts grayish white, tinged on sides and flanks with brown; under tail-coverts heavily barred with blackish; bill dark brown above, lighter below; culmen slightly decurved. Length: 5.00-5.50 (127-139.7); wing 2.08 (52.8); tail 2.01 (52.3); bill .59 (15); tarsus .79 (20).
Recognition Marks.—Warbler size; known from Western House Wren by superciliary stripe and whiter underparts, mostly unbarred; a little larger and more deliberate in movements.
Nesting.—Nest: in holes or crannies about stumps, upturned roots, brush-heaps, etc., or in buildings; a rather slight affair of dried grasses, skeleton leaves, mosses, and waste, rarely twigs, lined with wool, hair, or feathers. Eggs: 4-6, usually 5, white, speckled or spotted, rather sparingly, with reddish brown or purplish, uniformly or chiefly in wreath about larger end. Av. size, .68 × .54 (17.3 × 13.7). Season: April 15-June 15; two broods.
General Range.—Pacific Coast district from Oregon to southern British Columbia and Vancouver Island; resident.
Range in Washington.—Resident west of the Cascades, chiefly at lower levels and in valleys.
Authorities.—? Townsend, Journ. Ac. Nat. Sci. Phila. VII. 1837, 154 (Columbia River). Thriothorus bewickii Baird, Pac. Rep. R. R. Surv. IX. 1858, p. 363 part. (T). (C&S). L². Rh. Kb. Ra. Kk. B. E.
Specimens.—U. of W. P. Prov. B. BN. E.
To those who are acquainted only with the typical Bewick Wren of the East, the added vocal accomplishments of our western representative come in the nature of a surprise. For to the characteristic ditty of bewickii proper, calophonus has introduced so many trills and flourishes that the original motif is almost lost to sight. Calophonus means having a beautiful voice, or sweetly sounding, and right well does the bird deserve the name, in a region which is all too conspicuous for its lack of notable songsters.
Nor was it at all amiss for Professor Ridgway, the eminent ornithologist of Washington, D. C., to name this bird in honor of the Queen City, for it is in the immediate environs of the city, as well as in the untidy wastes of half-conquered nature, that the local Bewick Wren finds a congenial home. Logged-off tracts, slashings and burned-over areas are, however, its especial delight, and if the bird-man catches sight of one that has been making the rounds of all the fire-blackened stumps in the neighborhood, he is ready to declare a new sub-species on the strength of the bird’s soiled garments. No junk dealer knows the alleys of the metropolis better than this crafty bird knows the byways of his log-heaps and the intricate mazes of fire-weed and fern. If there is any unusual appearance or noise which gives promise of mischief afoot, the Seattle Wren is the first to respond. Flitting, gliding, tittering, the bird comes up and moves about the center of commotion, taking observations from all possible angles and making a running commentary thereon. His attitude is alert and his movements vivacious, but the chief interest attaches to the bird’s mobile tail. With this expressive member the bird is able to converse in a vigorous sign language. It is cocked up in impudence, wagged in defiance, set aslant in coquetry, or depressed in whimsical token of humility. Indeed, it is hardly too much to say that the bird makes faces with its tail.
While spying along the lower levels the Wren giggles and chuckles and titters, or else gives vent to a grating cry, moozeerp, which sets the woods on edge. But in song the bird oftenest chooses an elevated station, an alder sapling or the top of a stump. Here, at short intervals and in most energetic fashion, he delivers extended phrases of varied notes, now clear and sparkling, now slurred or pedalled. Above all, he is master of a set of smart trills. One of them, after three preliminary notes, runs tsu′ tsu′ tsu′ tsu′ tsu′ tsu′, like an exaggerated and beautified song of the Towhee. Another song, which from its rollicking character deserves to be called a drinking song, terminates with a brilliant trill in descending scale, rallentando et diminuendo, as tho the little minstrel were actually draining a beaker of dew.