BIRDS

A MONTHLY SERIAL

ILLUSTRATED BY COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY

DESIGNED TO PROMOTE

KNOWLEDGE OF BIRD-LIFE

VOLUME II.

CHICAGO

Nature Study Publishing Company

copyright, 1897

by

Nature Study Publishing Co.

chicago.

[Pg 81]

BIRDS.

Illustrated by COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY.

BIRD SONG.

How songs are made

Is a mystery,

Which studied for years

Still baffles me.

—R. H. Stoddard.

OME birds are poets and
sing all summer,” says
Thoreau. “They are the
true singers. Any man
can write verses in the
love season. We are most interested
in those birds that sing for the love of
music, and not of their mates; who
meditate their strains and amuse
themselves with singing; the birds
whose strains are of deeper sentiment.”

Thoreau does not mention by name
any of the poet-birds to which he
alludes, but we think our selections
for the present month include some of
them. The most beautiful specimen
of all, which is as rich in color and
“sun-sparkle” as the most polished
gem to which he owes his name, the
Ruby-throated Humming Bird, cannot
sing at all, uttering only a shrill
mouse-like squeak. The humming
sound made by his wings is far more
agreeable than his voice, for “when
the mild gold stars flower out” it announces
his presence. Then

“A dim shape quivers about

Some sweet rich heart of a rose.”

He hovers over all the flowers that
possess the peculiar sweetness that he
loves—the blossoms of the honeysuckle,
the red, the white, and the
yellow roses, and the morning glory.
The red clover is as sweet to him as
to the honey bee, and a pair of them
may often be seen hovering over the
blossoms for a moment, and then disappearing
with the quickness of a
flash of light, soon to return to the
same spot and repeat the performance.
Squeak, squeak! is probably their call
note.

Something of the poet is the Yellow
Warbler, though his song is not quite
as long as an epic. He repeats it a
little too often, perhaps, but there is
such a pervading cheerfulness about
it that we will not quarrel with the
author. Sweet-sweet-sweet-sweet-sweet-sweeter-sweeter!
is his frequent contribution
to the volume of nature, and
all the while he is darting about the
trees, “carrying sun-glints on his back
wherever he goes.” His song is appropriate
to every season, but it is in
the spring, when we hear it first, that
it is doubly welcome to the ear. The
grateful heart asks with Bourdillon:

“What tidings hath the Warbler heard

That bids him leave the lands of summer

For woods and fields where April yields

Bleak welcome to the blithe newcomer?”

The Mourning Dove may be called
the poet of melancholy, for its song
is, to us, without one element of cheerfulness.
Hopeless despair is in every
note, and, as the bird undoubtedly
does have cheerful moods, as indicated
by its actions, its song must be appreciated
only by its mate. Coo-o, coo-o!
suddenly thrown upon the air and
resounding near and far is something
hardly to be extolled, we should think,
and yet the beautiful and graceful
Dove possesses so many pretty ways
that every one is attracted to it, and
the tender affection of the mated pair
[Pg 82]
is so manifest, and their constancy so
conspicuous, that the name has become
a symbol of domestic concord.

The Cuckoo must utter his note in
order to be recognized, for few that
are learned in bird lore can discriminate
him save from his notes. He
proclaims himself by calling forth his
own name, so that it is impossible to
make a mistake about him. Well,
his note is an agreeable one and has
made him famous. As he loses his
song in the summer months, he is
inclined to make good use of it when
he finds it again. English boys are
so skillful in imitating the Cuckoo’s
song, which they do to an exasperating
extent, that the bird himself may
often wish for that of the Nightingale,
which is inimitable.

But the Cuckoo’s song, monotonous
as it is, is decidedly to be preferred to
that of the female House Wren, with its
Chit-chit-chit-chit, when suspicious or in
anger. The male, however, is a real
poet, let us say—and sings a merry
roulade, sudden, abruptly ended, and
frequently repeated. He sings, apparently,
for the love of music, and is
as merry and gay when his mate is
absent as when she is at his side,
proving that his singing is not solely
for her benefit.

So good an authority as Dr. Coues
vouches for the exquisite vocalization
of the Ruby-crowned Kinglet. Have
you ever heard a wire vibrating? Such
is the call note of the Ruby, thin and
metallic. But his song has a fullness,
a variety, and a melody, which, being
often heard in the spring migration,
make this feathered beauty additionally
attractive. Many of the fine
songsters are not brilliantly attired,
but this fellow has a combination of
attractions to commend him as worthy
of the bird student’s careful attention.

Of the Hermit Thrush, whose song
is celebrated, we will say only,
“Read everything you can find about him.”
He will not be discovered easily, for
even Olive Thorne Miller, who is presumed
to know all about birds, tells of
her pursuit of the Hermit in northern
New York, where it was said to be
abundant, and finding, when she
looked for him, that he had always
“been there” and was gone. But one
day in August she saw the bird and
heard the song and exclaimed:
“This only was lacking—this crowns my summer.”

The Song Sparrow can sing too, and
the Phoebe, beloved of man, and the
White-breasted Nuthatch, a little.
They do not require the long-seeking
of the Hermit Thrush, whose very
name implies that he prefers to flock
by himself, but can be seen in our
parks throughout the season. But the
Sparrow loves the companionship of
man, and has often been a solace to
him. It is stated by the biographer of
Kant, the great metaphysician, that
at the age of eighty he had become
indifferent to much that was passing
around him in which he had formerly
taken great interest. The flowers
showed their beautious hues to him in
vain; his weary vision gave little heed
to their loveliness; their perfume
came unheeded to the sense which
before had inhaled it with eagerness.
The coming on of spring, which he
had been accustomed to hail with
delight, now gave him no joy save
that it brought back a little Sparrow,
which came annually and made its
home in a tree that stood by his
window. Year after year, as one
generation went the way of all the
earth, another would return to its
birth-place to reward the tender care
of their benefactor by singing to him
their pleasant songs. And he longed
for their return in the spring with “an
eagerness and intensity of expectation.”

How many provisions nature has
for keeping us simple-hearted and
child-like! The Song Sparrow is one
of them.

—C. C. Marble.

[Pg 83]

summer yellow-bird.

From col. F. M. Woodruff.
Copyrighted by

Nature Study Pub. Co., 1897, Chicago.

[Pg 85]

THE YELLOW WARBLER.

N a recent article Angus Gaines
describes so delightfully some
of the characteristics of the
Yellow Warbler, or Summer
Yellow-bird, sometimes called
the Wild Canary, that we are tempted
to make use of part of it. “Back and
forth across the garden the little yellow
birds were flitting, dodging
through currant and gooseberry
bushes, hiding in the lilacs, swaying
for an instant on swinging sprays of
grape vines, and then flashing out
across the garden beds like yellow
sunbeams. They were lithe, slender,
dainty little creatures, and were so
quick in their movements that I could
not recognize them at first, but when
one of them hopped down before me,
lifted a fallen leaf and dragged a cutworm
from beneath it, and, turning
his head, gave me a sidewise glance
with his victim still struggling in his
beak, I knew him. His gay coat was
yellow without the black cap, wings,
and tail which show in such marked
contrast to the bright canary hue of
that other yellow bird, the Gold-finch.

“Small and delicate as these birds
are, they had been on a long journey
to the southward to spend the winter,
and now on the first of May, they had
returned to their old home to find the
land at its fairest—all blossoms, buds,
balmy air, sunshine, and melody. As
they flitted about in their restless way,
they sang the soft, low, warbling trills,
which gave them their name of Yellow
Warbler.”

Mrs. Wright says these beautiful
birds come like whirling leaves, half
autumn yellow, half green of spring,
the colors blending as in the outer
petals of grass-grown daffodils.
“Lovable, cheerful little spirits, darting
about the trees, exclaiming at each
morsel that they glean. Carrying
sun glints on their backs wherever
they go, they should make the
gloomiest misanthrope feel the season’s
charm. They are so sociable and
confiding, feeling as much at home in
the trees by the house as in seclusion.”

The Yellow-bird builds in bushes,
and the nest is a wonderful example
of bird architecture. Milkweed, lint
and its strips of fine bark are glued to
twigs, and form the exterior of the
nest. Its inner lining is made of the
silky down on dandelion-balls woven
together with horse-hair. In this
dainty nest are laid four or five creamy
white eggs, speckled with lilac tints
and red-browns. The unwelcome egg
of the Cow-bird is often found in the
Yellow-bird’s nest, but this Warbler
builds a floor over the egg, repeating
the expedient, if the Cow-bird continues
her mischief, until sometimes a
third story is erected.

A pair of Summer Yellow-birds, we
are told, had built their nest in a wild
rose bush, and were rearing their
family in a wilderness of fragrant
blossoms whose tinted petals dropped
upon the dainty nest, or settled upon
the back of the brooding mother.
The birds, however, did not stay “to
have their pictures taken,” but their
nest may be seen among the roses.

The Yellow Warbler’s song is
Sweet-sweet-sweet-sweet-sweet-sweeter-sweeter:
seven times repeated.

[Pg 86]

THE HERMIT THRUSH.

N John Burroughs’ “Birds and
Poets” this master singer is
described as the most melodious
of our songsters, with the exception
of the Wood Thrush,
a bird whose strains, more than any
other’s, express harmony and serenity,
and he complains that no merited
poetic monument has yet been reared
to it. But there can be no good
reason for complaining of the
absence of appreciative prose concerning
the Hermit. One writer says:
“How pleasantly his notes greet the
ear amid the shrieking of the wind
and the driving snow, or when in a
calm and lucid interval of genial
weather we hear him sing, if possible,
more richly than before. His song
reminds us of a coming season when
the now dreary landscape will be
clothed in a blooming garb befitting
the vernal year—of the song of the
Blackbird and Lark, and hosts of other
tuneful throats which usher in that
lovely season. Should you disturb
him when singing he usually drops
down and awaits your departure,
though sometimes he merely retires to
a neighboring tree and warbles as
sweetly as before.”

In “Birdcraft” Mrs. Wright tells us,
better than any one else, the story of
the Hermit. She says: “This spring,
the first week in May, when standing
at the window about six o’clock in the
morning, I heard an unusual note, and
listened, thinking it at first a Wood
Thrush and then a Thrasher, but soon
finding that it was neither of these I
opened the window softly and looked
among the near by shrubs, with my
glass. The wonderful melody ascended
gradually in the scale as it progressed,
now trilling, now legato, the most
perfect, exalted, unrestrained, yet
withal, finished bird song that I ever
heard. At the first note I caught
sight of the singer perching among
the lower sprays of a dogwood tree.
I could see him perfectly: it was the
Hermit Thrush. In a moment he
began again. I have never heard the
Nightingale, but those who have say
that it is the surroundings and its continuous
night singing that make it even
the equal of our Hermit; for, while
the Nightingales sing in numbers in
the moonlit groves, the Hermit tunes
his lute sometimes in inaccessible solitudes,
and there is something immaterial
and immortal about the song.”

The Hermit Thrush is comparatively
common in the northeast, and in
Pennsylvania it is, with the exception
of the Robin, the commonest of the
Thrushes. In the eastern, as in many
of the middle states, it is only a
migrant. It is usually regarded as a
shy bird. It is a species of more
general distribution than any of the
small Thrushes, being found entirely
across the continent and north to the
Arctic regions. It is not quite the
same bird, however, in all parts of its
range, the Rocky Mountain region
being occupied by a larger, grayer
race, while on the Pacific coast a
dwarf race takes its place. It is
known in parts of New England as
the “Ground Swamp Robin,” and in
other localities as “Swamp Angel.”

True lovers of nature find a certain
spiritual satisfaction in the song of
this bird. “In the evening twilight
of a June day,” says one of these,
“when all nature seemed resting in
quiet, the liquid, melting, lingering
notes of the solitary bird would steal
out upon the air and move us strangely.
What was the feeling it awoke in
our hearts? Was it sorrow or joy,
fear or hope, memory or expectation?
And while we listened, we thought
the meaning of it all was coming; it
was trembling on the air, and in an
instant it would reach us. Then it
faded, it was gone, and we could not
even remember what it had been.”

[Pg 88]

hermit thrush.

From col. F. M. Woodruff.
Copyrighted by

Nature Study Pub. Co., 1897, Chicago.

[Pg 89]

THE HERMIT THRUSH.

I am sorry, children, that I
cannot give you a specimen of
my song as an introduction to
the short story of my life. One
writer about my family says it
is like this: “O spheral, spheral!
O holy, holy! O clear away,
clear away! O clear up, clear
up!” as if I were talking to the
weather. May be my notes do
sound something like that, but
I prefer you should hear me
sing when I am alone in the
woods, and other birds are
silent. It is ever being said of
me that I am as fine a singer as
the English Nightingale. I
wish I could hear this rival of
mine, and while I have no doubt
his voice is a sweet one, and I
am not too vain of my own, I
should like to “compare notes”
with him. Why do not some of
you children ask your parents to
invite a few pairs of Nightingales
to come and settle here?
They would like our climate,
and would, I am sure, be welcomed
by all the birds with a
warmth not accorded the English
Sparrow, who has taken
possession and, in spite of my
love for secret hiding places,
will not let even me alone.

When you are older, children,
you can read all about me in
another part of Birds. I will
merely tell you here that I live
with you only from May to
October, coming and going away
in company with the other
Thrushes, though I keep pretty
well to myself while here, and
while building my nest and
bringing up my little ones I
hide myself from the face of
man, although I do not fear his
presence. That is why I am
called the Hermit.

If you wish to know in what
way I am unlike my cousin
Thrushes in appearance, turn
to pages 84
and 182, Vol. 1, of
Birds. There you will see their
pictures. I am one of the smallest
of the family, too. Some
call me “the brown bird with
the rusty tail,” and other names
have been fitted to me, as
Ground Gleaner, Tree Trapper,
and Seed Sower. But I do not
like nicknames, and am just
plain,

Hermit Thrush.

[Pg 90]

THE SONG SPARROW.

Glimmers gay the leafless thicket

Close beside my garden gate,

Where, so light, from post to wicket,

Hops the Sparrow, blithe, sedate;

Who, with meekly folded wing,

Comes to sun himself and sing.

It was there, perhaps, last year,

That his little house he built;

For he seemed to perk and peer

And to twitter, too, and tilt

The bare branches in between,

With a fond, familiar mien.

—George Parsons Lathrop.

E do not think it at all
amiss to say that this darling
among song birds
can be heard singing
nearly everywhere the whole year
round, although he is supposed to
come in March and leave us in November.
We have heard him in February,
when his little feet made tracks
in the newly fallen snow, singing as
cheerily as in April, May, and June,
when he is supposed to be in ecstacy.
Even in August, when the heat of
the dog-days and his moulting time
drive him to leafy seclusion, his liquid
notes may be listened for with certainty,
while “all through October
they sound clearly above the rustling
leaves, and some morning he comes to
the dogwood by the arbor and announces
the first frost in a song that is
more direct than that in which he
told of spring. While the chestnuts
fall from their velvet nests, he is
singing in the hedge; but when the
brush heaps burn away to fragrant
smoke in November, they veil his
song a little, but it still continues.”

While the Song Sparrow nests in
the extreme northern part of Illinois,
it is known in the more southern
portions only as a winter resident.
This is somewhat remarkable, it is
thought, since along the Atlantic
coast it is one of the most abundant
summer residents throughout Maryland
and Virginia, in the same latitudes
as southern Illinois, where it is
a winter sojourner, abundant, but
very retiring, inhabiting almost solely
the bushy swamps in the bottom
lands, and unknown as a song bird.
This is regarded as a remarkable
instance of variation in habits with
locality, since in the Atlantic states
it breeds abundantly, and is besides
one of the most familiar of the native
birds.

The location of the Song Sparrow’s
nest is variable; sometimes on the
ground, or in a low bush, but usually
in as secluded a place as its instinct of
preservation enables it to find. A
favorite spot is a deep shaded ravine
through which a rivulet ripples, where
the solitude is disturbed only by the
notes of his song, made more sweet
and clear by the prevailing silence.

[Pg 91]

song sparrow.

From col. F. M. Woodruff.
Copyrighted by

Nature Study Pub. Co., 1897, Chicago.

[Pg 93]

THE SONG SPARROW.

Dear Young Readers:

I fancy many of the little
folks who are readers of Birds
are among my acquaintances.
Though I have never spoken to
you, I have seen your eyes
brighten when my limpid little
song has been borne to you by a
passing breeze which made
known my presence. Once I
saw a pale, worn face turn to
look at me from a window, a
smile of pleasure lighting it up.
And I too was pleased to think
that I had given some one a
moment’s happiness. I have
seen bird lovers (for we have
lovers, and many of them) pause
on the highway and listen to
my pretty notes, which I know
as well as any one have a cheerful
and patient sound, and
which all the world likes, for to
be cheered and encouraged
along the pathway of life is like
a pleasant medicine to my weary
and discouraged fellow citizens.
For you must know I am a citizen,
as my friend Dr. Coues
calls me, and all my relatives.
He and Mrs. Mabel Osgood
Wright have written a book
about us called “Citizen Bird,”
and in it they have supported us
in all our rights, which even
you children are beginning to
admit we have. You are kinder
to us than you used to be. Some
of you come quickly to our
rescue from untaught and
thoughtless boys who, we think,
if they were made to know how
sensitive we are to suffering and
wrong, would turn to be our
friends and protectors instead.
One dear boy I remember well
(and he is considered a hero by
the Song Sparrows) saved a nest
of our birdies from a cruel
school boy robber. Why should
not all strong boys become our
champions? Many of them
have great, honest, sympathetic
hearts in their bosoms, and, if
we can only enlist them in our
favor, they can give us a peace
and protection which for
years we have been sighing.
Yes, sighing, because our hearts,
though little, are none the less
susceptible to all the asperities—the
terrible asperities of
human nature. Papa will tell
you what I mean: you would
not understand bird language.

Did you ever see my nest? I
build it near the ground, and
sometimes, when kind friends
prepare a little box for me, I
occupy it. My song is quite
varied, but you will always
recognize me by my call note,
Chek! Chek! Chek! Some people
say they hear me repeat “Maids,
maids, maids, hang on your
teakettle,” but I think this is
only fancy, for I can sing a real
song, admired, I am sure, by all
who love

Song Sparrow.

[Pg 94]

THE CUCKOO.

UR first introduction to the
Cuckoo was by means of
the apparition which issued
hourly from a little German
clock, such as are frequently
found in country inns. This particular
clock had but one dial hand, and
the exact time of day could not
be determined by it until the appearance
of the Cuckoo, who, in a squeaking
voice, seemed to announce that it
was just one hour later or earlier, as
the case might be, than at his last
appearance. We were puzzled, and
remember fancying that a sun dial, in
clear weather, would be far more
satisfactory as a time piece. “Coo-coo,”
the image repeated, and then retired
until the hour hand should summon
him once more.

To very few people, not students of
birds, is the Cuckoo really known.
Its evanescent voice is often recognized,
but being a solitary wanderer
even ornithologists have yet to learn
much of its life history. In their
habits the American and European
Cuckoos are so similar that whatever
of poetry and sentiment has been
written of them is applicable alike to
either. A delightful account of the
species may be found in Dixon’s Bird
Life, a book of refreshing and original
observation.

“The Cuckoo is found in the verdant
woods, in the coppice, and even on
the lonely moors. He flits from one
stunted tree to another and utters his
notes in company with the wild song
of the Ring Ousel and the harsh calls
of the Grouse and Plover. Though
his notes are monotonous, still no one
gives them this appellation. No! this
little wanderer is held too dear by us
all as the harbinger of spring for
aught but praise to be bestowed on his
mellow notes, which, though full and
soft, are powerful, and may on a calm
morning, before the everyday hum of
human toil begins, be heard a mile
away, over wood, field, and lake.
Toward the summer solstice his notes
are on the wane, and when he gives
them forth we often hear him utter
them as if laboring under great difficulty,
and resembling the syllables,
“Coo-coo-coo-coo”.”

On one occasion Dixon says he
heard a Cuckoo calling in treble
notes, Cuck oo-oo, cuck-oo-oo, inexpressibly
soft and beautiful, notably
the latter one. He at first supposed
an echo was the cause of these strange
notes, the bird being then half a mile
away, but he satisfied himself that this
was not the case, as the bird came and
alighted on a noble oak a few yards
from him and repeated the notes.
The Cuckoo utters his notes as he
flies, but only, as a rule, when a few
yards from the place on which he
intends alighting.

The opinion is held by some observers
that Nature has not intended
the Cuckoo to build a nest, but influences
it to lay its eggs in the nests of
other birds, and intrust its young to
the care of those species best adapted
to bring them to maturity. But the
American species does build a nest,
and rears its young, though Audubon
gives it a bad character, saying: “It
robs smaller birds of their eggs.” It
does not deserve the censure it has
received, however, and it is useful
in many ways. Its hatred of the
worm is intense, destroying many
more than it can eat. So thoroughly
does it do its work, that orchards,
which three years ago, were almost
leafless, the trunks even being covered
by slippery webbing, are again yielding
a good crop.

In September and October the
Cuckoo is silent and suddenly disappears.
“He seldom sees the lovely
tints of autumn, and never hears the
wintry storm-winds’ voice, for, impelled
by a resistless impulse, he
wings his way afar over mountain,
stream, and sea, to a land where
northern blasts are not felt, and where
a summer sun is shining in a cloudless
sky.”

[Pg 95]

yellow-billed cuckoo.

From col. O. E. Pagin.
Copyrighted by

Nature Study Pub. Co., 1897, Chicago.

[Pg 97]

THE RUBY-THROATED HUMMING BIRD.

Is it a gem, half bird,

Or is it a bird, half gem?

—Edgar Fawcett.

F all animated beings this is
the most elegant in form
and the most brilliant in
colors, says the great naturalist
Buffon. The stones
and metals polished by our arts are
not comparable to this jewel of Nature.
She has it least in size of the order of
birds, maxime miranda in minimis. Her
masterpiece is the Humming bird, and
upon it she has heaped all the gifts
which the other birds may only share.
Lightness, rapidity, nimbleness, grace,
and rich apparel all belong to this
little favorite. The emerald, the ruby,
and the topaz gleam upon its dress.
It never soils them with the dust of
earth, and its aerial life scarcely
touches the turf an instant. Always
in the air, flying from flower to flower,
it has their freshness as well as their
brightness. It lives upon their nectar,
and dwells only in the climates where
they perennially bloom.

All kinds of Humming birds are
found in the hottest countries of the
New World. They are quite numerous
and seem to be confined between
the two tropics, for those which penetrate
the temperate zones in summer
stay there only a short time. They
seem to follow the sun in its advance
and retreat; and to fly on the zephyr
wing after an eternal spring.

The smaller species of the Humming birds
are less in size than the
great fly wasp, and more slender than
the drone. Their beak is a fine needle
and their tongue a slender thread.
Their little black eyes are like two
shining points, and the feathers of
their wings so delicate that they seem
transparent. Their short feet, which
they use very little, are so tiny one
can scarcely see them. They rarely
alight during the day. They have a
swift continual humming flight. The
movement of their wings is so rapid
that when pausing in the air, the bird
seems quite motionless. One sees him
stop before a blossom, then dart like a
flash to another, visiting all, plunging
his tongue into their hearts, flattening
them with his wings, never settling
anywhere, but neglecting none. He
hastens his inconstancies only to pursue
his loves more eagerly and to
multiply his innocent joys. For this
light lover of flowers lives at their
expense without ever blighting them.
He only pumps their honey, and for
this alone his tongue seems designed.

The vivacity of these small birds is
only equaled by their courage, or
rather their audacity. Sometimes
they may be seen furiously chasing birds
twenty times their size, fastening
upon their bodies, letting themselves
be carried along in their flight, while
they peck fiercely until their tiny rage
is satisfied. Sometimes they fight
each other vigorously. Impatience
seems their very essence. If they approach
a blossom and find it faded,
they mark their spite by a hasty rending
of the petals. Their only voice is
a weak cry of Screp, screp, frequent
and repeated, which they utter in the
woods from dawn until at the first rays
of the sun they all take flight and
scatter over the country.

The Ruby-throat is the only native
Humming bird of eastern North
America, where it is a common summer
resident from May to October,
breeding from Florida to Labrador.
The nest is a circle an inch and a half
in diameter, made of fern wood, plant
down, and so forth, shingled with
lichens to match the color of the
branch on which it rests. Its only
note is a shrill, mouse-like squeak.

[Pg 99]

THE HOUSE WREN.

All the children, it seems to
me, are familiar with the habits
of Johnny and Jenny Wren;
and many of them, especially
such as have had some experience
with country life, could
themselves tell a story of these
mites of birds. Mr. F. Saunders
tells one: “Perhaps you may
think the Wren is so small a
bird he cannot sing much of a
song, but he can. The way we
first began to notice him was by
seeing our pet cat jumping about
the yard, dodging first one way
and then another, then darting
up a tree; looking surprised,
and disappointingly jumping
down again.

“Pussy had found a new play-mate,
for the little Wren evidently
thought it great fun to
fly down just in front of her and
dart away before she could
reach him, leading her from one
spot to another, hovering above
her head, chattering to her all
the time, and at last flying up
far out of her reach. This he
repeated day after day, for some
time, seeming to enjoy the fun
of disappointing her so nicely
and easily. But after a while
the little fellow thought he
would like a play-mate nearer
his own size, and went off to
find one. But he came back all
alone, and perched himself on
the very tip-top of a lightning-rod
on a high barn at the back
of the yard; and there he would
sing his sweet little trilling
song, hour after hour, hardly
stopping long enough to find
food for his meals. We wondered
that he did not grow tired
of it. For about a week we
watched him closely, and one
day I came running into the
house to tell the rest of the
family with surprise and delight
that our little Wren knew what
he was about, for with his winning
song he had called a mate
to him. He led her to the tree
where he had played with pussy,
and they began building a nest;
but pussy watched then as well
as we, and meant to have her
revenge upon him yet, so she
sprang into the tree, tore the
nest to pieces, and tried to catch
Jenny. The birds rebuilt their
nest three times, and finally we
came to their rescue and placed
a box in a safe place under the
eaves of the house, and Mr.
Wren with his keen, shrewd
eyes, soon saw and appropriated
it. There they stayed and raised
a pretty family of birdies; and
I hope he taught them, as he
did me, a lesson in perseverance
I’ll never forget.”

[Pg 100]

ruby-throated humming birds.

From col. F. M. Woodruff.
Copyrighted by

Nature Study Pub. Co., 1897, Chicago.

[Pg 101]

house wren.

From col. F. M. Woodruff.
Copyrighted by

Nature Study Pub. Co., 1897, Chicago.

[Pg 103]

THE RUBY-THROATED HUMMING BIRD.

Dear Young Folks:

I fancy you think I cannot
stop long enough to tell you a
story, even about myself. It is
true, I am always busy with the
flowers, drinking their honey
with my long bill, as you must
be busy with your books, if you
would learn what they teach.
I always select for my food the
sweetest flowers that grow in
the garden.

Do you think you would be
vain if you had my beautiful
colors to wear? Of course, you
would not, but so many of my
brothers and sisters have been
destroyed to adorn the bonnets
and headdresses of the thoughtless
that the children cannot be
too early taught to love us too
well to do us harm. Have you
ever seen a ruby? It is one of
the most valued of gems. It is
the color of my throat, and from
its rare and brilliant beauty I
get a part of my name. The
ruby is worn by great ladies
and, with the emerald and topaz,
whose bright colors I also wear,
is much esteemed as an ornament.

If you will come into the
garden in the late afternoon,
between six and seven o’clock,
when I am taking my supper,
and when the sun is beginning
to close his great eye, you will
see his rays shoot sidewise and
show all the splendor of my
plumage. You will see me, too,
if your eyes are sharp enough,
draw up my tiny claws, pause in
front of a rose, and remain
seemingly motionless. But
listen, and you will hear the
reason for my name—a tense
humming sound. Some call me
a Hummer indeed.

I spend only half the year in
the garden, coming in May and
saying farewell in October.
After my mate and I are gone
you may find our nest. But
your eyes will be sharp indeed
if they detect it when the leaves
are on the trees, it is so small
and blends with the branches.
We use fern-wool and soft down
to build it, and shingle it with
lichens to match the branch it
nests upon. You should see the
tiny eggs of pure white. But
we, our nest and our eggs, are
so dainty and delicate that they
should never be touched. We
are only to be looked at and
admired.

Farewell. Look for me when
you go a-Maying.

Ruby.

[Pg 104]

THE HOUSE WREN.

“It was a merry time

When Jenny Wren was young,

When prettily she looked,

And sweetly, too, she sung.”

N looking over an old memorandum
book the other day,”
says Col. S. T. Walker, of
Florida, “I came across the
following notes concerning
the nesting of the House Wren. I
was sick at the time, and watched the
whole proceeding, from the laying of
the first stick to the conclusion. The
nest was placed in one of the pigeonholes
of my desk, and the birds
effected an entrance to the room
through sundry cracks in the log
cabin.”

Such is the usual time required for
bringing forth a brood of this species
of Wren, which is the best known of
the family. In the Atlantic states it
is more numerous than in the far west,
where wooded localities are its chosen
haunts, and where it is equally at
home in the cottonwoods of the river
valleys, and on the aspens just below
the timber line on lofty mountains.

Mrs. Osgood Wright says very
quaintly that the House Wren is a
bird who has allowed the word male
to be obliterated from its social constitution
at least: that we always speak
of Jenny Wren: always refer to the
Wren as she as we do of a ship. That
it is Johnny Wren who sings and disports
himself generally, but it is Jenny,
who, by dint of much scolding and
fussing, keeps herself well to the front.
She chooses the building-site and
settles all the little domestic details.
If Johnny does not like her choice, he
may go away and stay away; she will
remain where she has taken up her
abode and make a second matrimonial
venture.

The House Wren’s song is a merry
one, sudden, abruptly ended, and frequently
repeated. It is heard from the
middle of April to October, and upon
the bird’s arrival it at once sets about
preparing its nest, a loose heap of sticks
with a soft lining, in holes, boxes, and
the like. From six to ten tiny, cream-colored
eggs are laid, so thickly spotted
with brown that the whole egg is
tinged.

The House Wren is not only one
of our most interesting and familiar
neighbors, but it is useful as an
exterminator of insects, upon which it
feeds. Frequently it seizes small butterflies
when on the wing. We have
in mind a sick child whose convalescence
was hastened and cheered by
the near-by presence of the merry
House Wren, which sings its sweet
little trilling song, hour after hour,
hardly stopping long enough to find
food for its meals.

[Pg 106]

phoebe.

From col. J. G. Parker. Jr.
Copyrighted by

Nature Study Pub. Co., 1897, Chicago.

[Pg 107]

THE PHOEBE.

Oft the Phoebe’s cheery notes

Wake the laboring swain;

“Come, come!” say the merry throats,

“Morn is here again.”

Phoebe, Phoebe! let them sing for aye,

Calling him to labor at the break of day.

—C. C. M.

EARLY everywhere in the
United States we find this
cheerful bird, known as
Pewee, Barn Pewee,
Bridge Pewee, or Phoebe, or Pewit
Flycatcher. “It is one of that charming
coterie of the feathered tribe who
cheer the abode of man with their
presence.” There are few farmyards
without a pair of Pewees, who do the
farmer much service by lessening the
number of flies about the barn, and by
calling him to his work in the morning
by their cheery notes.

Dr. Brewer says that this species is
attracted both to the vicinity of water
and to the neighborhood of dwellings,
probably for the same reason—the
abundance of insects in either situation.
They are a familiar, confiding, and
gentle bird, attached to localities, and
returning to them year after year.
Their nests are found in sheltered
situations, as under a bridge, a projecting
rock, in the porches of houses,
etc. They have been known to build
on a small shelf in the porch of a
dwelling, against the wall of a railroad
station, within reach of the passengers,
and under a projecting window-sill, in
full view of the family, entirely
unmoved by the presence of the latter
at meal time.

Like all the flycatcher family the
Phoebe takes its food mostly flying.
Mrs. Wright says that the Pewee in
his primitive state haunts dim woods
and running water, and that when
domesticated he is a great bather, and
may be seen in the half-light dashing
in and out of the water as he makes
trips to and from the nest. After the
young are hatched both old and young
disport themselves about the water
until moulting time. She advises:
“Do not let the Phoebes build under
the hoods of your windows, for their
spongy nests harbor innumerable bird-lice,
and under such circumstances
your fly-screens will become infested
and the house invaded.”

In its native woods the nest is of
moss, mud, and grass placed on a rock,
near and over running water; but in
the vicinity of settlements and villages
it is built on a horizontal bridge beam,
or on timber supporting a porch or
shed. The eggs are pure white, somewhat
spotted. The notes, to some
ears, are Phoebe, phoebe, pewit, phoebe!
to others, of somewhat duller sense of
hearing, perhaps, Pewee, pewee, pewee!
We confess to a fancy that the latter
is the better imitation.

[Pg 108]

THE RUBY-CROWNED KINGLET.

ASKETT says that the
Kinglets come at a certain
early spring date before
the leaves are fully expanded,
and flutter upward,
while they take something from
beneath the budding leaf or twig. It
is a peculiar motion, which with their
restless ways, olive-green color, and
small size, readily distinguishes them.
It is rare that one is still. “But the
ruby-crowned sometimes favors me
with a song, and as it is a little long,
he usually is quiet till done. It is
one of the sweetest little lullaby-like
strains. One day I saw him in the
rose bush just near voluntarily expand
the plumage of his crown and show
the brilliant golden-ruby feathers
beneath. Usually they are mostly
concealed. It was a rare treat, and
visible to me only because of my
rather exalted view. He generally
reserves this display for his mate, but
he was here among some Snow-birds
and Tree Sparrows, and seemed to be
trying to make these plain folks
envious of the pretty feathers in his
hat.”

These wonderfully dainty little
birds are of great value to the farmer
and the fruit grower, doing good work
among all classes of fruit trees by
killing grubs and larvae. In spite of
their value in this respect, they have
been, in common with many other
attractive birds, recklessly killed for
millinery purposes.

It is curious to see these busy
wanderers, who are always cheery and
sociable, come prying and peering
about the fruit trees, examining every
little nook of possible concealment
with the greatest interest. They do
not stay long after November, and
return again in April.

The nest of this Kinglet is rarely
seen. It is of matted hair, feathers,
moss, etc., bulky, round, and partly
hanging. Until recently the eggs
were unknown. They are of a dirty
cream-white, deepening at larger end
to form a ring, some specimens being
spotted.

Mr. Nehrling, who has heard this
Kinglet sing in central Wisconsin and
northern Illinois, speaks of the “power,
purity, and volume of the notes, their
faultless modulation and long continuance,”
and Dr. Elliott Coues says
of it: “The Kinglet’s exquisite vocalization
defies description.” Dr. Brewer
says that its song is clear, resonant,
and high, a prolonged series, varying
from the lowest tones to the highest,
and terminating with the latter. It
may be heard at quite a distance, and
in some respects bears more resemblance
to the song of the English
Sky-lark than to that of the Canary,
to which Mr. Audubon compares it.

[Pg 110]

ruby-crowned kinglet.

From col. F. M. Woodruff.
Copyrighted by

Nature Study Pub. Co., 1897, Chicago.

[Pg 111]

THE MOURNING DOVE.

Dear Young Bird Lovers:

Most every person thinks that,
while my actions are very pretty
and attractive, and speak much
in my favor, I can only really
say, Coo-o, Coo-o, which they also
think does not mean anything at
all. Well, I just thought I
would undeceive them by writing
you a letter. Many grown
up people fancy that we birds
cannot express ourselves because
we don’t know very much.
Of course, there is a good reason
why they have this poor opinion
of us. They are so busy with
their own private concerns that
they forget that there are little
creatures like ourselves in the
world who, if they would take a
little time to become acquainted
with them, would fill their few
hours of leisure with a sweeter
recreation than they find in
many of their chosen outings.
A great English poet, whose
writings you will read when you
get older, said you should look
through Nature up to Nature’s
God. What did he mean? I
think he had us birds in his
mind, for it is through a study
of our habits, more perhaps than
that of the voiceless trees or the
dumb four-footed creatures that
roam the fields, that your hearts
are opened to see and admire
real beauty. We birds are the
true teachers of faith, hope, and
charity,—faith, because we trust
one another; hope, because,
even when our mother Nature
seems unkind, sending the drifting
snow and the bitter blasts
of winter, we sing a song of
summer time; and charity, because
we are never fault finders.

I believe, without knowing it,
I have been telling you about
myself and my mate. We
Doves are very sincere, and
every one says we are constant.

If you live in the country,
children, you must often hear
our voices. We are so tender
and fond of each other that we
are looked upon as models for
children, and even grown-up
folks. My mate does not build
a very nice nest—only uses a
few sticks to keep the eggs from
falling out—but she is a good
mother and nurses the little
ones very tenderly. Some people
are so kind that they build
for us a dove cote, supply us
with wheat and corn, and make
our lives as free from care and
danger as they can. Come and
see us some day, and then you
can tell whether my picture is a
good one. The artist thinks it
is and he certainly took lots of
pains with it.

Now, if you will be kind to
all birds, you will find me, in
name only,

Mourning Dove.

[Pg 113]

mourning dove.

From col. F. M. Woodruff.
Copyrighted by

Nature Study Pub. Co., 1897, Chicago.

[Pg 115]

HOW THE BIRDS SECURED THEIR RIGHTS.

T is said that the following petition
was instrumental in securing
the adoption in Massachusetts
of a law prohibiting the
wearing of song and insectivorous
birds on women’s hats. It is
stated that the interesting document
was prepared by United States Senator
Hoar. The foregoing verse of Scripture
might have been quoted by the
petitioning birds to strengthen their
position before the lawmakers:

“To the Great and General
Court of the Commonwealth of
Massachusetts: We, the song birds
of Massachusetts and their playfellows,
make this our humble petition. We
know more about you than you think
we do. We know how good you are.
We have hopped about the roofs and
looked in at the windows of the houses
you have built for poor and sick and
hungry people, and little lame and
deaf and blind children. We have
built our nests in the trees and sung
many a song as we flew about the
gardens and parks you have made so
beautiful for your children, especially
your poor children, to play in. Every
year we fly a great way over the
country, keeping all the time where
the sun is bright and warm. And we
know that whenever you do anything
the other people all over this great
land between the seas and the great
lakes find it out, and pretty soon will
try to do the same. We know. We
know.

“We are Americans just the same as
you are. Some of us, like some of
you, came across the great sea. But
most of the birds like us have lived
here a long while; and the birds like
us welcomed your fathers when they
came here many, many years ago. Our
fathers and mothers have always done
their best to please your fathers and
mothers.

“Now we have a sad story to tell
you. Thoughtless or bad people are
trying to destroy us. They kill us
because our feathers are beautiful.
Even pretty and sweet girls, who we
should think would be our best friends,
kill our brothers and children so that
they may wear our plumage on their
hats. Sometimes people kill us for
mere wantonness. Cruel boys destroy
our nests and steal our eggs and our
young ones. People with guns and
snares lie in wait to kill us; as if the
place for a bird were not in the sky,
alive, but in a shop window or in a
glass case. If this goes on much
longer all our song birds will be gone.
Already we are told in some other
countries that used to be full of birds
they are now almost gone. Even the
Nightingales are being killed in Italy.

“Now we humbly pray that you
will stop all this and will save us from
this sad fate. You have already made
a law that no one shall kill a harmless
song bird or destroy our nests or
our eggs. Will you please make another
one that no one shall wear our
feathers, so that no one shall kill us to
get them? We want them all ourselves.
Your pretty girls are pretty
enough without them. We are told
that it is as easy for you to do it as for
a blackbird to whistle.

“If you will, we know how to pay
you a hundred times over. We will
teach your children to keep themselves
clean and neat. We will show
them how to live together in peace
and love and to agree as we do in our
nests. We will build pretty houses
which you will like to see. We will
[Pg 116]
play about your garden and flowerbeds—ourselves
like flowers on wings—without
any cost to you. We will
destroy the wicked insects and worms
that spoil your cherries and currants
and plums and apples and roses. We
will give you our best songs, and make
the spring more beautiful and the
summer sweeter to you. Every June
morning when you go out into the
field, Oriole and Bluebird and Blackbird
and Bobolink will fly after you,
and make the day more delightful to
you. And when you go home tired after
sundown Vesper Sparrow will tell you
how grateful we are. When you sit
down on your porch after dark, Fifebird
and Hermit Thrush and Wood Thrush
will sing to you; and even Whip-poor-will
will cheer you up a little. We
know where we are safe. In a little
while all the birds will come to live
in Massachusetts again, and everybody
who loves music will like to make a
summer home with you.”

The singers are:

THE CAPTIVE’S ESCAPE.

I saw such a sorrowful sight, my dears,

Such a sad and sorrowful sight,

As I lingered under the swaying vines,

In the silvery morning light.

The skies were so blue and the day was so fair

With beautiful things untold,

You would think no sad and sorrowful thing

Could enter its heart of gold.

A fairy-like cage was hanging there,

So gay with turret and dome.

You’d be sure a birdie would gladly make

Such a beautiful place its home.

But a wee little yellow-bird sadly chirped

As it fluttered to and fro;

I know it was longing with all its heart

To its wild-wood home to go.

I heard a whir of swift-rushing wings,

And an answering gladsome note;

As close to its nestlings’ prison bars,

I saw the poor mother bird float.

I saw her flutter and strive in vain

To open the prison door.

Then sadly cling with drooping wing

As if all her hopes were o’er.

But ere I could reach the prison house

And let its sweet captive free,

She was gone like a yellow flash of light,

To her home in a distant tree.

“Poor birdie,” I thought, “you shall surely go,

When mamma comes back again;”

For it hurt me so that so small a thing

Should suffer so much of pain.

And back in a moment she came again

And close to her darling’s side

With a bitter-sweet drop of honey dew,

Which she dropped in its mouth so wide.

Then away, with a strange wild mournful note

Of sorrow, which seemed to say

“Goodbye, my darling, my birdie dear,

Goodbye for many a day.”

A quick wild flutter of tiny wings,

A faint low chirp of pain,

A throb of the little aching heart

And birdie was free again.

Oh sorrowful anguished mother-heart,

’Twas all that she could do,

She had set it free from a captive’s life

In the only way she knew.

Poor little birdie! it never will fly

On tiny and tireless wing.

Through the pearly blue of the summer sky,

Or sing the sweet songs of spring.

And I think, little dears, if you had seen

The same sad sorrowful sight,

You never would cage a free wild bird

To suffer a captive’s plight.

—Mary Morrison.

[Pg 118]

white-breasted nuthatch.

From col. F. M. Woodruff.
Copyrighted by

Nature Study Pub. Co., 1897, Chicago.

[Pg 119]

THE WHITE-BREASTED NUTHATCH.

EARLY every one readily
recognizes this species as it
runs up and down and
around the branches
and trunks of trees in
search of insect food, now and then
uttering its curious Quauk, quauk, quauk.
The White-breasted Nuthatch is often
improperly called “Sapsucker,” a
name commonly applied to the Downy
Woodpecker and others. It is a common
breeding bird and usually begins
nesting early in April, and two broods
are frequently reared in a season. For
its nesting place it usually selects the
decayed trunk of a tree or stub, ranging
all the way from two to sixty feet
above the ground. The entrance may
be a knot hole, a small opening, or a
small round hole with a larger cavity
at the end of it. Often the old excavation
of the Downy Woodpecker is
made use of. Chicken feathers, hair,
and a few dry leaves loosely thrown
together compose the nest.

This Nuthatch is abundant throughout
the State of Illinois, and is a
permanent resident everywhere except
perhaps of the extreme northern
counties. It seems to migrate in
spring and return in autumn, but, in
reality, as is well known, only retreats
to the woodlands to breed, emerging
again when the food supply grows
scant in the autumn.

The Nuthatches associate familiarly
with the Kinglets and Titmice, and
often travel with them. Though
regarded as shy birds they are not
really so. Their habits of restlessness
render them difficult of examination.
“Tree-mice” is the local name given
them by the farmers, and would be
very appropriate could they sometimes
remain as motionless as that diminutive
animal.

Careful observation has disclosed
that the Nuthatches do not suck the
sap from trees, but that they knock
off bits of decayed or loose bark with
the beak to obtain the grubs or larvae
beneath. They are beneficial to vegetation.
Ignorance is responsible for
the misapplied names given to many
of our well disposed and useful birds,
and it would be well if teachers were
to discourage the use of inappropriate
names and familiarize the children
with those recognized by the best
authorities.

Referring to the Nuthatches Mr.
Baskett says: “They are little bluish
gray birds, with white undervests—sometimes
a little soiled. Their tails
are ridiculously short, and never touch
the tree; neither does the body, unless
they are suddenly affrighted, when
they crouch and look, with their beaks
extended, much like a knot with a
broken twig on it. I have sometimes
put the bird into this attitude by
clapping my hands loudly near the
window. It is an impulse that seems
to come to the bird before flight,
especially if the head should be downward.
His arrival is sudden, and
seems often to be distinguished by
turning a somersault before alighting,
head downward, on the tree trunk, as
if he had changed his mind so suddenly
about alighting that it unbalanced
him.

“I once saw two Nuthatches at what
I then supposed was a new habit. One
spring day some gnats were engaged
in their little crazy love waltzes in the
air, forming small whirling clouds,
and the birds left off bark-probing and
began capturing insects on the wing.
They were awkward about it with
their short wings, and had to alight
frequently to rest. I went out to
them, and so absorbed were they that
they allowed me to approach within
a yard of a limb that they came to rest
upon, where they would sit and
pant till they caught their breath,
when they went at it again. They
seemed fairly to revel in a new diet
and a new exercise.”

[Pg 120]

SUMMARY

Page 83.

YELLOW WARBLER.—Dendroica æstiva.
Other names: “Summer Yellow-bird,” “Wild Canary,”
“Yellow-poll Warbler.”

Range—The whole of North America; breeding
throughout its range. In winter, the whole
of middle America and northern South America.

Nest—Built in an apple tree, cup-shaped,
neat and compact, composed of plant fibres,
bark, etc.

Eggs—Four or five; greenish-white, spotted.

Page 88.

HERMIT THRUSH.—Turdus aonalaschkæ
pallasii. Other names: “Swamp Angel,”
“Ground Swamp Robin.”

Range—Eastern North America, breeding
from northern United States northward; wintering
from about latitude 40° to the Gulf coast.

Nest—On the ground, in some low, secluded
spot, beneath shelter of deep shrubbery. Bulky
and loosely made of leaves, bark, grasses,
mosses, lined with similar finer material.

Eggs—Three or four; of greenish blue,
unspotted.

Page 91.

SONG SPARROW.—Melospiza fasciata.

Range—Eastern United States and British
Provinces, west to the Plains, breeding chiefly
north of 40°, except east of the Alleghenies.

Nest—On the ground, or in low bushes, of
grasses, weeds, and leaves, lined with fine grass
stems, roots, and, in some cases, hair.

Eggs—Four to seven; varying in color from
greenish or pinkish white to light bluish green,
spotted with dark reddish brown.

Page 95.

YELLOW-BILLED CUCKOO.—Coccyzus
americanus. Other names: “Rain Crow,”
“Rain Dove,” and “Chow-Chow.”

Range—Eastern North America to British
Provinces, west to Great Plains, south in winter,
West Indies and Costa Rica.

Nest—In low tree or bush, of dried sticks,
bark strips and catkins.

Eggs—Two to four; of glaucous green which
fades on exposure to the light.

Page 100.

RUBY-THROATED HUMMING BIRD.—Trochilus
colubris.

Range—Eastern North America to the Plains
north to the fur countries, and south in winter
to Cuba and Veragua.

Nest—A circle an inch and a half in diameter,
made of fern wool, etc., shingled with
lichens to match the color of the branch on
which it is saddled.

Eggs—Two; pure white, the size of soup beans.

Page 101.

HOUSE WREN.—Troglodytes aedon.

Range—Eastern United States and southern
Canada, west to the Mississippi Valley; winters
in southern portions.

Nest—Miscellaneous rubbish, sticks, grasses,
hay, and the like.

Eggs—Usually seven; white, dotted with
reddish brown.

Page 106.

PHOEBE.—Sayornis phœbe. Other names:
“Pewit,” “Pewee.”

Range—Eastern North America; in winter
south to Mexico and Cuba.

Nest—Compactly and neatly made of mud
and vegetable substances, with lining of grass
and feathers.

Eggs—Four or five; pure white, sometimes
sparsely spotted with reddish brown dots at
larger end.

Page 110.

RUBY-CROWNED KINGLET.—Regulus calendula.

Range—Entire North America, wintering in
the South and in northern Central America.

Nest—Very rare, only six known; of hair,
feathers, moss, etc., bulky, globular, and
partly pensile.

Eggs—Five to nine; dull whitish or pale
puffy, speckled.

Page 113.

MOURNING DOVE.—Zenaidura macrura.
Other names: “Carolina Dove,” “Turtle Dove.”

Range—Whole of temperate North America,
south to Panama and the West Indies.

Nest—Rim of twigs sufficient to retain the
eggs.

Eggs—Usually two; white.

Page 118.

WHITE-BREASTED NUTHATCH.—Sitta
carolinensis. Other name: “Sapsucker,”
improperly called.

Range—Eastern United States and British
Provinces.

Nest—Decayed trunk of tree or stub, from
two to six feet from ground, composed of chicken
feathers, hair, and dry leaves.

Eggs—Five to eight; white with a roseate
tinge, speckled with reddish brown and a slight
tinge of purple.