Nor is the effort of the Western Meadowlark confined to the formal song for he often pours out a flood of warbling, chattering and gurgling notes which at close range are very attractive. Not infrequently he will interrupt one of these meditative rhapsodies with the clarion call, and return immediately to his minor theme.
In the presence of a stranger the lark serves frequent notice of intended departure in a vigorous toop, or toob, accompanying the sound with an emphatic flirt of the wings and jerk of the tail. Now and then the actual departure is accompanied by a beautiful yodelling song. After several preliminary toobs the bird launches himself with fantastic exaggeration of effort and rolls out, O′ly o′ly o′ly o′ly o′ly, with ravishing sweetness.
At nesting time the parent birds have many causes for apprehension, and as they move about in search of food they give vent to the toob note of distrust in a fashion which soon becomes chronic. In Douglas County this note is doubled, two′ bit, or two′ whit, and one cannot recall the varied life of the sage in June without hearing as an undertone the half melancholy two′ bit of a mother Meadowlark as she works her way homeward by fearful stages.
At nesting time the Western Meadowlark enjoys a wide distribution in Washington. It is found not only on all grassy lowlands and in cultivated sections but in the open sage as well and upon the half-open pine-clad foothills up to an altitude of four thousand feet.
The Meadowlark is an assiduous nester. This not because of any unusual amativeness but because young Meadowlarks are the morceaux délicieux of all the powers that prey, skunks, weasels, mink, raccoons, coyotes, snakes, magpies, crows. Hawks and owls otherwise blameless in the bird-world err here—the game is too easy. Even the noble Peregrine does not disdain this humble, albeit toothsome, quarry, and the Least Falcon (Falco sparverius phalæna) will stoop for a young Meadowlark when all other avian offerings are virtuously passed by.
Taken in Stevens County. Photo by the Author.
NEST AND EGGS OF THE WESTERN MEADOWLARK.
Fecundity then is the only recourse,—this, and concealment. Not relying altogether upon its marvelous protective coloration the lark exhibits great caution in approaching, and, if possible, in quitting its nest. In either case it sneaks along the ground for a considerable distance, threading the mazes of the grass so artfully that the human eye can follow with difficulty or not at all. At the approach of danger a sitting bird may either steal from her nest unobserved and rise at a safe distance or else seek to further her deception by feigning lameness after the fashion of the Shore-birds. Or, again, she may cling to her charge in desperation hoping against hope till the last possible moment and taking chances of final mishap. In this way a friend of mine once discovered a brooding Meadowlark imprisoned underneath his boot—fortunately without damage for she occupied the deep depression of a cow-track.
To further concealment the grass-lined depression in which the Meadowlark places her four or five speckled eggs is almost invariably over-arched with dried grasses. This renders the eggs practically invisible from above, and especially if the nest is placed in thick grass or rank herbage, as is customary. Touching instances of blind devotion to this arch tradition were, however, afforded by a sheep-swept pasture near Adrian. Here the salt-grass was cropped close and the very sage was gnawed to stubs. But the Meadowlarks, true to custom, had imported long, dried grasses with which to over-arch their nests. As a result one had only to look for knobs on the landscape. By eye alone we located six of these pathetic landmarks in the course of a half-hour’s stroll.
One brood is usually brought off by May 1st and another by the middle of June. Altho Meadowlarks are classed as altricial, i. e. having young helpless when hatched and which require to be nurtured in the nest, the young Meadowlarks are actually very precocious and scatter from the nest four or five days after hatching, even before they are able to fairly stand erect. This arrangement lessens the chances of wholesale destruction but it would appear to complicate the problem from the parental standpoint. How would you, for instance, like to tend five babies, each in a separate thicket in a trackless forest, and that haunted by cougars, and lynxes, and boa-constrictors and things?