Chapter M: O. W (3)

One Crow made a special exhibition of egoistic tendencies. He was engaged in hurriedly carrying off future breakfasts for himself when a party of brother Crows appeared. He had been working with absorption, flying back and forth to the table with eager haste, being gone less than half a minute at a time, but on the arrival of his friends dropped his work and devoted himself to driving them from the field. Not content with keeping them from the table, he flew at them with a strange note of ominous warning when they sat quietly in the tree-tops. It seemed as if he were nervous lest they discover what he had been storing among the branches. When he had fairly routed the enemy he apparently acted on his fear of discovery, for, instead of placing his supplies near at hand as before, he flew out of sight with them. As before, he worked with nervous haste. As I looked down on the tree-tops from above it was impossible to see where he put all the food, but several times when he flew up in sight he seemed to be sticking small bits between the needles of the pines. As the bunches of needles are compact and stiff in this white-barked pine (_Pinus albicaulis_), this might be a safe temporary cache, but the winter gales that make it necessary to hold down the Inn with huge cables would presumably leave little biscuit between the needles of a pine.

The question is, do these birds--and others which hoard--really use their stores? The testimony of all who are in the field in winter is needed to clear up the matter. The first point to be determined is whether the individual birds winter where they store. The Nutcrackers, Mr. Langille informed me, do remain at the high altitudes all the year. As he said, it is stormy indeed when they cannot be seen sailing across the cañons or perched on the topmost branches of the trees, screaming and calling in their harsh way, always restless and seeming to resent any intrusion of man, beast, or fowl. On the other hand, he said that the Jays seldom remain at the high altitudes during the winter months, usually descending to lower elevations, where they flit about in flocks of from six to twenty, sounding their plaintive varied notes and whistles at all times.

Photographed from nature by Walter K. Fisher]

Nevertheless, the storing of the Crows at this altitude was certainly much less systematic than that of the Jays. The Jays' movements were easy to follow, for they were concerted and regular. The Inn was on a ridge between two cañons, and commanded the birds' pathway. A band would come up from under the cliff at the top of the western cañon, cross over the ridge, and drop down into the eastern cañon, where they would fly over the tops of the firs till they disappeared from sight. They would be gone some little time, and then return empty-handed to repeat the performance.

The Jays talked a good deal in going back and forth, and their notes were pleasantly varied. One call was remarkably like the chirp of a Robin. Another of the commonest was a weak and rather complaining cry, repeated several times; and a sharply contrasting one was a pure, clear whistle of one note followed by a three-syllabled call, something like _ka-wé-ah_. The regular rallying cry was still different, a loud and striking two-syllabled _ka-wheé_. The notes of Clark's Crow often suggested the rattling of the Red-headed Woodpecker. The bird had a variety of _kerring_, throaty notes, and when disturbed, as at the unexpected sight of me at its dining-room, gave a loud, warning _quarr_. Besides these Woodpecker-like calls, it had a squawking cry similar to that of Steller's Jay.

The voices of the birds were often heard from the house as they got water from the hydrant in front of the Inn, the Jays frequently stopping on the way back from their cañon storehouse. Sometimes three Jays would suddenly appear overhead, drop noiselessly to the pool under the hydrant, and squatting close together fill their bills and then raise their heads to swallow. Though the Jays usually went to the pool for water, they would sometimes light on the hydrant and, leaning over, drink from the faucet, which Mrs. Langille always left dripping for their benefit. The Clark's Crows, so far as I noticed, always drank right from the faucet.

Photographed from nature by Walter K. Fisher]

It was hard to get photographs of the birds at the hydrant, as they stopped only in passing, but as it was impossible to take them under the cliff on account of the poor light, I determined to bait them. Finding a number of the Nutcrackers in front of the kitchen window, I asked the Chinaman for some meat for them, holding up my Kodak to explain that I wanted to take the birds' pictures. To my surprise, the man promptly and decidedly shook his head! I didn't know what to make of such apparent rudeness at first, but it finally dawned on me that he could not understand English and, not being an ornithologist, from past experience with tourist cameras concluded that I wanted _his_ picture! Accordingly, nothing daunted, I appealed to Mrs. Langille, and when she gave me a plate of suet, returned to take the Crows. They flew at my approach, but quickly settled back and fairly fell on the meat I put in the road for them. I got a snap of one with a big mouthful. After taking all the Nutcrackers I wanted, I went back to the hydrant to wait for the Jays, but the Crows followed and one fellow fairly gorged himself on the fat. He gulped it down so fast I had to drive him off in order to have either meat or films left for the Jays. It was hard to persuade him that I wanted him to leave. He had had no experience of such inhospitality. Mild shooing did no good. I actually had to throw small stones at him before he would take the hint! When he finally started to go, I got his picture as he turned and looked regretfully over his shoulder at the Jay he was leaving in possession of the field.

The Jays were even more fearless than the Crows. Several of them would often be on the ground at once, but they ate so fast and flew back and forth so rapidly that it was hard to focus on them quickly enough to get their most interesting poses. I put a brown paper behind or under the pan for a lighter background, and at first the birds hopped nervously when it moved, but they soon got used to it, and ate on it and on the pan, as it happened. And how they did stuff! They were so absorbed that, although I sat within four feet of the pan, they sometimes came too near for me to focus. They paid so little heed to my presence I have no doubt they would have eaten from my hand had I not been engaged in keeping them at a proper distance. When the raw meat was gone Mrs. Langille gave me a supply of cooked fat, and it was astonishing to see how much of the greasy stuff they could swallow. I caught one just as he was about to fly off with a billful of it. The fat seemed to make them thirsty; they had to go to the hydrant to wash it down with cold water.

Meat Hawk, the name the mountaineers have for them, is certainly appropriate. They are on the lookout for meat wherever it is to be found, be it kitchen door or forest. Their appetite for game is truly remarkable. Mr. Langille told me he might go through the woods all day without seeing a single Jay, but if he killed a deer and the smell of blood filled the air, in a few moments the birds would be about, calling and whistling; and, emboldened by the prospect of a feast, they would fly down and perch upon the carcass within reach of his hand, sometimes before the deer was entirely skinned.

Photographed from nature by Walter K. Fisher]

On Mount Shasta, although the Nutcrackers came about camp, they showed no desire for camp food, and on Hood Mr. Langille informed me that the Crows tamed this year were the first they had ever succeeded in coaxing about. After I left the mountain they became still more familiar, and, I am told, would gather in the trees at daybreak and call until the family went out to feed them.

The Masquerading Chickadee[E]

BY EDITH M. THOMAS

[Footnote E: "March 1, 1856.--I hear several times the fine drawn _Phe-be_ note of the Chickadee, which I heard only once during the winter."--"Early Spring in Massachusetts."--Thoreau.]

I came to the woods in the dead of the year,
I saw the wing'd sprite thro' the green-brier peeping:
"Darling of Winter, you've nothing to fear,
Though the branches are bare and the cold earth is sleeping!"

With a _dee, dee, dee!_ the sprite seemed to say,
"I'm friends with the Maytime as well as December,
And I'll meet you here on a fair-weather day;
Here, in the green-brier thicket,--remember!"

* * * * *

I came to the woods in the spring of the year,
And I followed a voice that was most entreating:
_Phebe! Phebe!_ (and yet more near),
_Phebe! Phebe!_ it kept repeating!

I gave up the search, when, not far away,
I saw the wing'd sprite thro' the green-brier peeping,
With a _Phebe! Phebe!_ that seemed to say,
"I told you so! and my promise I'm keeping."

"You'll know me again, when you meet me here,
Whether you come in December or Maytime:
I've a _dee, dee, dee!_ for the Winter's ear,
And a _Phebe! Phebe!_ for Spring and Playtime!"

Matins

BY ROSA MEYERS MUMMA

As sable night fades into soft rose tint,
Through leafy aisles slow filters daylight's glint;
From green tree arch is faintly heard the call
Which summons quickly feathered choir all
To Nature's vast cathedral, where in song
Unite the worshippers, a feathered throng.
What harmonies pour forth from each bird throat!
A morning prayer ascends with each clear note.

Home-Life in a Chimney

BY MARY F. DAY

Near Boonton, N. J., it was my good fortune last summer to have the exceptional opportunity of watching closely the rearing of a family of Chimney Swifts. The nest was built opposite and slightly above an opening in the chimney designed for the insertion of a stovepipe. The opening was about two feet from the floor of a second-story room in the house where I spent the summer.

When discovered, the nest was only partially completed, so it was necessary to exercise care, lest the birds become alarmed and choose a more secluded spot. To guard against disturbance to them, a black cloth was hung over the opening in such a way that it could be carefully and noiselessly lifted during periods of observation. Although the room was used as a bedchamber throughout the summer, the Swifts never seemed to be annoyed by the close proximity of their human neighbors. They were of a trustful disposition, and soon became accustomed to being watched. Occasionally, when I looked in upon them at the beginning of our acquaintance, they would spread their long, beautifully formed wings and lift them gracefully above the back, as if intending to fly, but usually, upon second consideration, would conclude it was unnecessary.

It was the 21st of May when I first peeped in upon the little bracket against the chimney wall that became the stage for the enactment of scenes filled with absorbing interest to me in the weeks that followed. It was not placed in an angle, but against the north side of the flue, beneath a slight projection formed by an accumulation of soot.

In a week one egg was apparent, but there may have been others, for the little builders had been adding one twig after another to the front edge of the nest, so that it had become impossible to see the bottom. Two more days passed, after which it could be seen that there were at least two eggs, and yet the structure continued to be enlarged.

June 5 marked the beginning of incubation. In mid-afternoon of this day I saw the sitting bird had flown, and, going out-of-doors to study birds, my attention was attracted to a Swift flying among the branches of the locust trees near by. This was an unusual sight to me, and, recalling that I had read that Swifts never alight in trees, I watched eagerly to see what it might mean. Soon I saw that the bird was snatching at little dry twigs. She flew round and round, and presently was gone. Suspecting that it was my little friend, I ran quickly upstairs, and sure enough, there sat my bird upon the nest, with a twig in her mouth, panting as if tired by extra exertion. Resting a moment, she proceeded to apply the salivary glue and adjust the twig, and then settled again to the task of sitting.

After a few days there came a cold storm, and it was believed that the little brooder proved unfaithful to her duties, for late one evening and early the following morning she was seen huddled with others of her kind beneath the nest. Great were my fears that no birds would ever come from these chilled eggs, but time made it clear that the tiny creature knew what she was doing. This was the sole act of parental neglect that was apparent during all the weeks required to rear the family. Under date of June 17, I noted that the eggs were constantly protected. At whatever time of day I looked I saw a sitting bird.

June 24 dawned fair and warm. As was my custom, I called to say "good morning" into the chimney before going down to breakfast, when I found that there was excitement in the little home. A faint peep reached my ear, which caused the mother anxious restlessness each time it was repeated. From half-past eight until ten o'clock that morning I sat at my post of observation, during which time it appeared that two or three more young were hatched, for there was much peeping on the part of the little ones and much fidgeting about by the adults. Two shells, or parts of shells, were tossed from the nest. Occasionally the parents exchanged places, one brooding the infants while the other went out into the air. Even at the tender age that must be reckoned by minutes, these young birds were fed, seemingly, by regurgitation.

During the progress of my study I found that one of the pair, which from manners and appearance I judged to be the female, had lost a tail feather, and this one I affectionately dubbed "Swiftie." She appeared worn out with anxiety added to the confinement of a long period of incubation, and embraced every opportunity to rest, but seasons of sleep were of short duration, for it seemed that the body of the brooding bird was lifted each time a movement was felt beneath. The mate, with his sleek coat, bright eyes and calm demeanor, formed a decided contrast to the ragged, unkempt appearance of the female.

Even four days showed perceptible growth in the swiftlings. They were not allowed to remain uncovered, a wise precaution, for their bodies were perfectly naked. At this age the instinct of cleanliness began to assert itself. The weak, awkward little creatures would struggle backward from beneath the brooder, up to the edge of the nest and deposit over it that which, remaining within, would have made their home uninhabitable.

From this time forth a third Swift was seen to enter into the care of the nestlings, taking its turn at brooding and feeding. Was this a nurse-maid employed to relieve the overburdened mother, or a kind and helpful friend or neighbor, or the younger and less care-taking of two wives? Who can tell?

It was not until the sixth day after hatching that I knew to a certainty how many young birds there were. Then, to my surprise, I found there were five. They had grown to be very clamorous for food. Two, at most three (later but one), were served at one feeding, and the process was after this manner: "Swiftie" would drop into the chimney and alight below the nest, her throat bulging with the fullness of captured insects. The little ones that were hungry were alert, for all had learned that a rumbling noise in the chimney, followed by a sound of "chitter, chitter, chitter," meant something to eat. After resting a moment, the mother would scramble up over the nest, and, with closed eyes, feel about until she came in contact with an open mouth, whereupon she would place her beak far down the throat, deposit a portion of food, then seek another yawning cavity. No system appeared to be observed in the matter of feeding. The hungriest youngsters made the greatest effort to reach the source of supply.

July 1 feathers began to appear. They grew rapidly, especially those of wings and tail, and in a week the bodies were about covered. With feathers came employment, for they must often be dressed, though from a habit of yawning frequently, common to the family, one might be led to believe that time hung heavily on their claws.

The nestlings were two weeks old before the eyes began to open, and nearly three before they were much used. But when they were fully open, and the feathers had grown out and were fast becoming sooty instead of black, how winning these young birds appeared!

The time had now come to take up exercises preparatory to flying. The young aspirants would stand in the nest and for a time vibrate the wings rapidly, so rapidly that the identity of wing was lost. Two first ventured from home when nineteen days old, clinging to the wall for a short time a few inches from the nest.

One afternoon about this time there came a severe and prolonged shower. The rain beat into the chimney, reaching down to the nest. What, now did I see? Besides the five grown-up swiftlings, the three adults, packed in and upon the nest, the rain dripping from those which were exposed. I mention this incident to give an idea of the adhesiveness of the glue used in the construction of Swifts' nests.

July 20 I made the following note: "Swiftlings no longer make use of the nest, but dispose themselves in various parts of the chimney, sometimes in a cluster, sometimes in twos or threes, and sometimes separately. They take flying exercises up and down the chimney, but I believe have not yet left it." The next morning I was forced to conclude that three had taken flight into the great outside world, for upon looking the chimney over thoroughly with the aid of a small mirror, I could find but two birds.

The chimney was much used by this interesting family until the 24th of August. Early in the morning of that day a large number of Swifts were seen gathering in a flock at a short distance from the house. Ten o'clock that night I searched the chimney with a lighted candle, but found no sign of life, and I believe that the Swifts did not again enter within its walls.

Three Cobb's Island Pictures

BY WILLIAM L. BAILY

Right out on the sandy beach, just above high tide, the Black Skimmer risks her set of eggs, and, while apparently unprotected, they are so much the color of the sand and the surrounding shells and seaweed that they would not be noticed unless you were especially looking for them.

The Skimmers are gull-like in form, with long, slender body and long wings, spreading almost three feet. They have a glossy black back, white breast, orange feet, and a most curiously shaped orange bill, which is almost as thin as a knife, the thin edges closing vertically together. This peculiarity has given the bird the name of 'Razor Bill.'

Their graceful and regular flight can hardly be mistaken for that of any other bird. They skim just over the surface of the water, following the contour of the waves, while the lower mandible of their bill, which is longer than the upper, projects below the surface of the water, and when it comes in contact with a small fish, the latter simply slide up the narrow, inclined plane into the Skimmer's mouth.

Formerly they bred in great numbers along the eastern coast of our Middle and Southern Atlantic states, and only a few years ago were abundant on the New Jersey coast. They have been crowded out, however, by encroaching civilization, and hunted down by the milliners' agents and the egg-collectors. In June, 1898, I found them on Cobb's Island, Virginia, to the number of about two hundred pairs, where, not long ago, they bred in thousands.

As the eggs are entirely exposed, the parents are relieved to some extent from the duty of incubation by the heat of the sun, and as soon as the young hatch they run about like chickens.

After getting two good pictures of the Skimmer and her eggs, I turned my attention to a Gull-billed Tern, and while standing over her nest, which contained two eggs and one fuzzy young, just hatched, I obtained a rather remarkable picture of the parent bird flying straight at the camera, nicely illustrating what a small sectional area a bird occupies while flying.

The Cardinal at the Hub

BY ELLA GILBERT IVES

With Photographs from nature by Blanche Kendall

His range being southern, Cardinal Grosbeak seldom travels through New England; and, to my knowledge, has never established a home and reared a family north of Connecticut until in the instance here recorded. Kentuckians claim him, and with some show of right, since James Lane Allen built his monument in imperishable prose. But, soon or late, all notables come to Boston, and among them may now be registered the "Kentucky Cardinal."

Shy by nature, conspicuous in plumage, he shuns publicity; and, avoiding the main lines of travel, he put up at a quiet country house in a Boston suburb--Brookline.

Here, one October day in 1897, among the migrants stopping at this half-way house, appeared a distinguished guest, clad in red, with a black mask, a light red bill, and a striking crest; with him a bird so like him that they might have been called the two Dromios. After a few days, the double passed on and left our hero the only red-coat in the field. A White-throated Sparrow now arrived from the mountains, and a Damon and Pythias friendship sprang up between the birds. Having decided to winter at the North, they took lodgings in a spruce tree, and came regularly to the table d'hote on the porch. My lord Cardinal, being the more distinguished guest, met with particular favor, and soon became welcome at the homes of the neighborhood. With truly catholic taste, he refused creature comforts from none, but showed preference for his first abode.

It was March 5, 1898, when we kept our first appointment with the Cardinal. A light snow had fallen during the night, and the air was keen, without premonition of spring. It was a day for home-keeping birds, the earth larder being closed. The most delicate tact was required in presenting strangers. A loud, clear summons,--the Cardinal's own whistle echoed by human lips--soon brought a response. Into the syringa bush near the porch flew, with a whir and a sharp _tsip_, a bird. How gorgeous he looked in the snow-laden shrub! For an instant the syringa blossoms loaded the air with fragrance as a dream of summer floated by. Then a call to the porch was met by several sallies and quick retreats, while the wary bird studied the newcomers. Reassuring tones from his gentle hostess, accompanied by the rattle of nuts and seeds, at last prevailed, and the Cardinal flew to the railing and looked us over with keen, inquiring eye. Convinced that no hostilities were intended, he gave a long, trustful look into the face of his benefactress and flew to her feet.

A gray squirrel frisking by stopped at the lunch-counter and seized an 'Educator' cracker.

The novel sensation of an uncaged bird within touch, where one might note the lovely shading of his plumage as one notes a flower, was memorable; but a sweeter surprise was in store. As we left the house, having made obeisance to his eminence the Cardinal, the bird flew into a spruce tree and saluted us with a melodious "Mizpah." Then, as if reading the longing of our hearts, he opened his bright bill, and a song came forth such as never before enraptured the air of a New England March,--a song so copious, so free, so full of heavenly hope, that it seemed as if forever obliterated were the "tragic memories of his race."

As March advanced, several changes in the Cardinal were noted by his ever-watchful friends. He made longer trips abroad, returning tired and hungry. The restlessness of the unsatisfied heart was plainly his. His long, sweet, interpolating whistle, variously rendering "Peace ... peace ... peace!" "Three cheers, three cheers," etc., to these sympathetic northern ears became "Louise, Louise, Louise!" Thenceforth he was Louis, the Cardinal, calling for his mate.

On March 26, a kind friend took pity on the lonely bachelor, and a caged bird, "Louise," was introduced to him. In the lovely dove-colored bird, with faint washings of red and the family mask and crest, the Cardinal at once recognized his kind. His joy was unbounded; and the acquaintance progressed rapidly, a mutual understanding being plainly reached during the seventeen days of cage courtship. Louis brought food to Louise, and they had all things in common except liberty.

April 12, in the early morning, the cage was taken out-of-doors and Louise was set free. She was quick to embrace her chance, and flew into the neighboring shrubbery. For six days she reveled in her new-found freedom; Louis, meanwhile, coming and going as of old, and often carrying away seeds from the house to share with his mate.

April 16, he lured her into the house, and after that they came often for food, flying fearlessly in at the window, and delighting their friends with their songs and charming ways. Louis invariably gave the choicest morsels to his mate, and the course of true love seemed to cross the adage; but alas! Death was already adjusting an arrow for that shining mark.

April 25, Louise stayed in the house all day, going out at nightfall. Again the following day she remained indoors, Louis feeding her; but her excellent appetite disarmed suspicion, and it was thought that she had taken refuge from the cold and rain, especially as she spent the night within. The third morning, April 27, she died. An examination of her body revealed three dreadful wounds.

Louis came twittering to the window, but was not let in until a day or two after, when a new bird, "Louisa," had been put in the cage. When he saw the familiar form, he evidently thought his lost love restored, for he burst into glorious song; but, soon discovering his mistake, he stopped short in his hallelujahs, and walked around the cage inspecting the occupant.

Louisa's admiration for the Cardinal was marked; but for some days he took little notice of her, and his friends began to fear that their second attempt at matchmaking would prove a failure. April 30, however, some responsive interest was shown, and the next day Louis brought to the cage a brown bug half an inch long, and gave Louisa his first meat-offering.

The second wooing progressed rapidly, and May 7, when Louisa was set free, the pair flew away together with unrestrained delight. After three days of liberty, Louisa flew back to the house with her mate, and thenceforth was a frequent visitor.

May 21, Louisa was seen carrying straws, and on June 6 her nest was discovered low down in a dense evergreen thorn (_Cratægus pyracantha_). Four speckled eggs lay in the nest. These were hatched June 9, the parent birds, meantime and afterward, going regularly to market and keeping up social relations with their friends.

In nine days after their exit from the shell, the little Cardinals left the nest and faced life's sterner realities. A black cat was their worst foe, and more than once during their youth Louis flew to his devoted commissary and made known his anxiety. Each time, on following him to the nest, she found the black prowler, or one of his kind, watching for prey. On June 28, the black cat outwitted the allied forces, Señor Cardinal and his friends, and a little one was slain. The other three grew up and enjoyed all the privileges of their parents, flying in at the window and frequenting the bountiful porch.

July 25, Louisa disappeared from the scene, presumably on a southern trip, leaving the Cardinal sole protector, provider and peace-maker for their lively and quarrelsome triplet. A fight is apparently as needful for the development of a young Cardinal as of an English schoolboy, possibly due in both cases to a meat diet.

Over-feeding was but temporary with our birds. On the 8th of August the migratory instinct prevailed over ease, indulgence, friendship, and the Cardinal with his brood left the house where he had been so well entertained, to return no more. No more? Who shall say of any novel that it can have no sequel? Massachusetts may yet become the permanent home of the Kentucky Cardinal, the descendant to the third and fourth generation of Louis and his mate.

A Catbird Study

BY DR. THOS. S. ROBERTS

Director Department of Birds, Natural History Survey of Minnesota.

With Photographs from nature by the Author.

The subjects of this sketch had located their bark- and root-lined nest of coarse sticks, four feet from the ground, in a little oak bush surrounded by brakes, sunflowers, and hazel. Instead of being, as usual, in the midst of a dense, and, therefore, dark thicket, this nest was quite in the open, shaded by only a few overhanging, leafy branches of small size. Its exceptionally favorable location and the apparent tameness of the birds suggested an attempt at avian photography, and the undertaking was entered upon at once, a very considerable fund of interest and enthusiasm having to take the place of any special previous experience in this line of work. After clearing away a little of the overhanging and intervening vegetation, the camera was placed with the lens not more than two feet from the nest, this being necessary in order to secure an image of the desired size with the short focus lens at hand (a B. and L. Zeiss Anastigmat, Series II A, 6-1/2 × 4-1/4, focal length 5-3/8 inches). Fifty feet of rubber tubing, a large bulb, and a field-glass made it possible to watch developments and carry on operations from a safe distance. But, although the camera was nearly concealed with ferns and leaves, this day's proceedings were not rewarded with much success. The birds proved exasperatingly timid, and returned only after prolonged waits, to disappear instanter on the click of the shutter (a B. and L. iris diaphragm shutter). So we left the field, not disheartened but bent upon improving our paraphernalia. A day or two later found the camera again in position, but this time with tripod green-painted and the whole unsightly top enveloped in a green hood with only a small aperture for the lens. This ruse succeeded fairly well, and during the three or four hours that the light was good on this day, and during a like period on a subsequent day, a number of exposures were made that resulted in an interesting series of negatives, giving good prints and still better lantern slides.

Only one of several time-exposures turned out perfect. It is here presented, not only as the prize picture of some three hundred negatives made during the summer of 1898, but as the sole and only entirely satisfactory outcome of some twelve or fourteen hours' work.

=For Teachers and Students=

On the Ethics of Caging Birds

BY OLIVE THORNE MILLER

Before saying a few words on this subject, I should like to define my position. With all my heart do I disapprove of caging wild birds. I never had, and never shall have, the liberty of one bird interfered with for my pleasure or study, and if I had the power to prevent it, not one should ever be caged. Especially do I regard it as cruel in the extreme to confine an adult bird, accustomed to freedom and able to take care of himself.

The question of "rights" we will not enter upon here, further than to say that our moral right to capture wild creatures for our own use or pleasure is the same in the case of birds as of other animals--horses, for example.

But birds _are_ caged, and we must deal with circumstances as we find them. If a bird-lover should worry and fret himself to death, he could not put an end to their captivity. So it would appear to be the part of wisdom to see if there are not mitigating circumstances, which may comfort, and perhaps, in a slight degree, even reconcile one to their imprisonment.

The case of Canaries is different from that of all others. Hatched in cages, descended from caged ancestry, and accustomed to be cared for by people, they know no other life, and are utterly unfitted for freedom. So far from being a kindness to set one of these birds free, it is absolute cruelty. It is like turning a child, accustomed to a luxurious life, into the streets, to pick up a living for himself.

But a young bird, taken from the nest before he has learned the use of his wings, I believe, can be made perfectly contented and happy in a house--_if he is properly cared for!_

It is unfortunately true that not one in a thousand _is_ properly cared for, but we are not considering the shortcomings of people. At this moment we are considering the possibility of making a bird's life happy.

For several years I kept birds in captivity, and closely studied their ways and their characters, and I say, without hesitation, that most birds can be made so contented and happy that they will prefer their captivity, with its several advantages, to freedom without them. The advantages of captivity to a bird are three; viz., abundant food supply, protection from enemies, ease of life--without labor or concern about weather.

The conditions, therefore, necessary to his happiness are: Never-failing care as to his physical comforts--such as a proper situation of the cage,--neither in the hot sunshine nor in a draught; fresh and perfect food, with variety; plenty of fresh water; suitable and regular bath, etc. And secondly--though perhaps it should be first, as it is most important--treatment as if he were a sentient being, instead of a piece of furniture; talking to him, taking notice of him, making a companion and friend of him. And thirdly, the freedom of a room, at least part of every day.

Under these conditions, as I know from close and sympathetic observation, our little brothers can be made so happy, that, as I said, many of them will not accept their liberty. They choose between freedom, with hard labor and many anxieties, and comfortable captivity, with ease and security, and many decide--as do many of the human family--for the former.

There is another reason why I have become partially tolerant of the caging of birds. What first influenced me was the fact that every individual rescued from the discomforts of a bird store, where they are seldom well cared for and never cherished, is greatly benefitted, and I felt that to be a work of charity.

But there is one strong argument in favor of the custom. That is, their great value as a means of educating children. Nothing is more important than the training of our youth in humanity and respect for the rights of others. And in no way can this be so well accomplished as by giving to them the care of pets. By investigation of prisons and reform schools, it has been amply proved that nothing so surely keeps a boy from falling into a criminal life as the care of and kindness to the lower orders. The daily care of a pet bird is a daily lesson in altruism which never fails to bear fruit.

In those precious first years of the child's life, when the mother has the power of instilling lessons that will be a part of him,--the most indelible he will ever receive,--if she takes a little pains to do so she can implant, with the love of creatures dependent upon him, qualities that will go far to make him a true, manly man.

While these considerations do not, perhaps, make it right to deprive a fellow creature of his liberty, they do furnish a little consolation to those who love humanity as well as birds. At the same time I must admit, that of all pitiful sights on earth, that of a neglected captive is one of the most heartrending.

A May Morning

BY FRED. H. KENNARD

There is a bird pasture, as I call it, about a half hour's ride from Boston, and thither I went on May 30, 1898, to see if I could find the nest of a White-eyed Vireo that I had often hunted for in years gone by, but never yet succeeded in finding.

This bird pasture, on one side of which runs the road, consists of eight or ten acres of old, wet pasture land on a hillside surrounded on two other sides by fields and an orchard, and immediately above a marsh in which the sedges and grasses grow luxuriantly, and which is bordered by alders, birches and other swamp-loving trees. The pasture itself is very wet in one portion, and has been overgrown with birch, alders, oak and tangles of grapevines, wait-a-bits, poison ivy, etc. In another part it is more open, and is more sparsely covered with red cedars and white pines, while the ground is dotted with wild roses and hard-hack, interspersed with clumps of alders. This combination of hill and marsh, field and orchard, cover and open, as well as evergreen and deciduous growth, makes it an ideal place for birds and their breeding; and one that is hard to duplicate in any locality, combining also woods and civilization as it does, for there are houses and barns in the immediate vicinity. You probably cannot duplicate this pasture, but those of you who love birds, and who can find any spot approximating this in conditions, would do well to appropriate it, metaphorically speaking, as I have this.

But to return to the birds--I thought I would carefully note all those I saw or heard in the course of a short hour I had to spare, and with the following results: As I took down the bars in order to take my bicycle into the pasture, a Baltimore Oriole was singing on top of an elm close by, and I have no doubt that its mate was sitting on the nest that hung pendent from the next tree. A Catbird slunk off into the bushes to the right of me, from a thicket in which she last year raised a brood; and, while chaining my wheel, I heard the glorious notes of a Brown Thrasher singing, a little way off, on the top of a tall white oak. Several Red-eyed Vireos were there too, their steady, rippling song forming a soft accompaniment to the more conspicuous notes of the other feathered songsters. Next, I flushed a Quail, and, while watching its flight, I almost stepped on two more, which got up from the under-brush at my feet.

I started in now on my hunt for the White-eye's nest, and for some time was so absorbed in that, and in listening for its expected song, that there was no time to make notes of the other birds heard, except that of a Wood Thrush, whose nest contained four eggs, and was saddled on the crotch of a grape-vine, where it crossed through the crotch of an alder.

To make a long story short, I did not find the Vireos, or even hear them, though for several years they had lived here throughout the summer. I finally went out into an open space, lighted a pipe as a mosquito preventive, and, seating myself on the soft side of a boulder, put down the names of the birds whose notes I could hear.

Below me, in the swamp, the most prominent notes were the 'concarees' of the Red-winged Blackbirds, while between them could be heard the songs of several Swamp Sparrows. Close beside me were a Chestnut-sided and a Golden-winged Warbler, both seemingly much disturbed by my presence, while just as near was a Maryland Yellow-throat, an old friend of mine, who did not seem to care whether I was there or not. This same friend is rather a curiosity, for, although his species usually build in or about the marshes or swamps, he always prefers the hillside, and I last year found his nest within forty feet of where I sat, and several hundred feet away from and above the swamp.

A few Cedar Birds were whispering from the tops of a couple of red cedars about fifty yards away, and I could hear a Yellow Warbler on the other side of the open space, where he sang, apparently for the benefit of a near-by barberry bush.

A Wood Pewee was uttering his plaintive note from the orchard immediately back of me; while just back of that, in the field by the top of the hill, could be heard the rollicking notes of a Bobolink and the occasional call of a Meadow Lark. While writing my notes, some kind of a large Hawk, which flew so fast that identification was impossible, but which I guessed to be a Cooper's Hawk, went off rapidly across the marsh, pursued by a pair of vociferous Kingbirds; and, as I watched them, I could see numbers of Chimney Swifts, from the neighboring chimneys, and Barn Swallows, from a barn close by, coursing about above the marsh after the insects that there abound, the Swallows low down and the Swifts above. While watching the Swallows, two Crows came out of the wood on the opposite side of the marsh, and flew, cawing, across and off into the distance; and a little Green Heron, who, like all fishermen, prefers quiet, flew off in another direction.

Down towards the edge of the swamp, in the outlying thicket, a Song Sparrow was singing, while, close by, a magnificent Rose-breasted Grosbeak, which every year builds in the birches which grow in these thickets, was warbling his incomparable song. At first he had been giving vent to his very unmusical call of alarm, but, becoming used to my presence, and concluding that I meant no harm, he joined in the concert.

Off to one side, among the more scrubby deciduous growth, I could hear, and sometimes see, a Redstart, while the _tse-tse-tse_-ing of the Black-poll Warblers, which were migrating northwards, could be heard intermittently. Two Quails were now calling loudly for Bob-White, or Rob-ert-White, as their fancy dictated, and in the confusing medley I could make out the modest notes of a Black and White Warbler, which had for years nested somewhere in this pasture. Behind me, at the top of the hill, I could also hear the clear, cheery notes of a Field Sparrow, which always builds there.

Being limited as to time, and having already heard twenty-eight kinds of birds in the short space of about twenty minutes, and from one place, I started to depart, but even as I did so I heard the notes of another bird coming across the marsh, that of the Black-billed Cuckoo, and just as I was again taking down the bars to get out into the street, what should I hear, loud, clear and distinct, but the song of that plaguey little White-eyed Vireo, a song seemingly of thanksgiving that I was really going and that he had eluded me so well. I then reluctantly mounted my bicycle, but was forced to get off, to add two more birds to my increasing list; viz., a Cowbird, which was sitting on the fence opposite, and a pair of Yellow-throated Vireos, the female of which had evidently but just left her nest for a lunch, while the male followed twittering and whispering close by, stopping his song until she should have resumed her duties of incubation.

I had now seen thirty-two different species of birds in the short space of about twenty-five minutes' actual time spent in observation, after deducting the time spent in hunting the Vireo's nest, and departed for home well content, even though I knew I had seen only about three-fifths of the varieties of birds that are often to be found in the immediate vicinity.

On a previous occasion, when I had been lucky enough to be able to spend a whole morning in this pasture, I had seen forty-four different species, nineteen of which I had not seen to-day, and which, added to the thirty-two noted above, make a total of fifty-one species. Of these, there were only five that were merely occasional visitors. Of the remainder, I have found direct evidence of the breeding of thirty-two species, while on various accounts I feel sure that fourteen others breed there, although I have never actually found their nests.

=For Young Observers=

A February Walk (Prize Essay)

By Mildred A. Robinson

(Aged 14 years)

We had planned to walk over to the pond to see if the recent thaw had spoiled the skating. As we passed the foot of the hill, the little brook splashed and tumbled down from its icy framework, eddying around the brown goldenrod stalks, and then rushed on at topmost speed across the opposite meadow.

We were standing on the little bridge, watching the ever fascinating current, when an odd bird-note called our attention to a little gray-backed, white-breasted bird who was running up and down a neighboring tree.

All thoughts of skating instantly vanished from our minds; we climbed the fence, and in a moment more were noiselessly following our obstinate little bird, who would keep so high up in the tree-tops that it was almost impossible to see anything but his breast.

Finally, he descended, head downward, along one of the lower branches of the tree, and we saw that it was a White-breasted Nuthatch. Evidently he thought he had stayed quite long enough for examination, so, after a few parting pecks at the rough bark, trying to secure one more hidden insect, he flew off.

We were slowly following the course of the little stream, when suddenly a great rustle of the dead leaves near the water's edge caused us to pause and listen. All was silent, with the exception of a few distant Chickadees, then, with a whir and a clatter, we saw a bushy tail disappear into the thicket; a moment more and out came a beautiful gray squirrel. Like a flash he was up the tree, jumping from limb to limb, frisking about in the sunshine, then down onto the ground again, and away. His visit was even shorter than that of the Nuthatch, but not less enjoyable.

And now, where were those noisy little Chickadees who had been calling to us from the alder bushes for the last half-hour? It was easy enough to find these confiding little creatures; they were feeding on the ground, and seemed quite unconcerned at our presence, although we approached very near to them. One little fellow seemed to be asleep; he sat all puffed up on one of the alder branches, but as I came nearer to him I could see that his bright little eye was on me, and at the next step he flew away.

It was now late in the afternoon, and, as we looked toward the west, the last rays of the sun were just tinting the distant hills with a mellow, golden hue; the birds had flown away, leaving the woods silent, so we reluctantly turned our footsteps towards home.

Photographed from nature by T. S. Hankinson]

Robin Rejoice

BY GARRETT NEWKIRK

Among the first of the spring,
The notes of the Robin ring;
With flute-like voice,
He calls "Rejoice,
For I am coming to sing!"

To any one gloomy or sad,
He says, "Be glad! be glad!
Look on the bright side,
'Tis aye the right side;
The world is good, not bad."

At daybreak in June we hear
His melody, strong and clear:
"Cheer up, be merry,
I've found a cherry;
'Tis a glorious time of the year!"

=Notes from Field and Study=

Inquisitive Magpies

I was collecting specimens of natural history in the northern part of the state of Washington, a few miles from the Canadian border. At the time the incident which I am about to relate occurred I was stopping at a ranch at the southern end of Okanagan lake.

The owner of the building was cramped for room, so, as it was during the heat of the summer, I spent the nights rolled up in my blankets under a haystack. One morning, as the sun was rising, I was awakened by shadows crossing my face, and opening my eyes saw a flock, possibly a family, of Magpies perched on the stack and ends of poles that had been thrown over it to keep the hay from blowing away. I watched them as they peered inquisitively at me from their perches, until finally one flew to the ground, then another and another, until at last several were gathered about me, but a few feet away. I lay on my side, with my arms under the blankets, and watched their actions. At last one jumped on the blankets at my feet. I could feel him hopping slowly upward. I did not move for fear of frightening him. Finally he reached my shoulder, and, after perching there a few seconds, flew to my cheek. I closed my eyes slowly, fearing he might peck them. After testing my cheek lightly with his bill, he began to get in some uncomfortably heavy blows, so I thought it time to stop him. Without opening my eyes, or moving, I said in a low tone. "Here! Here! That will do!" He hesitated, as if to make sure his ears had not deceived him, and then flew to the stack. Another took his place, after working up in the same manner; he was quietly asked to move on. When the next one hopped on the blankets, I slowly raised my hand under them, making a tempting elevation, of which he was not slow to take advantage. He lighted squarely in the palm of my hand, which I closed at once, and held him prisoner. With the other hand I caught him by the legs from the outside, whereupon he flopped his wings, cried out with anger, and pecked at my wrist savagely. The remainder of the flock, which, in the meantime, had flown to the haystack, scolded and jabbered away at a great rate.

Evidently they had taken me for a corpse, but I think it was the liveliest one they ever saw.--J. Alden Loring, _Owego, N. Y._

Songs of Birds

The songs of birds have attracted a good deal of attention in recent years, and observation seems to confirm the theory that each generation of birds learns the song characteristics of its species by association with its own kind.

This fact was brought quite clearly to my mind several years ago, when in a western town I was taken to a neighbor's to see his birds. Four cages swung in the shelter of a commodious porch. One contained a Red-winged Blackbird, that had been taken from its nest when very young, and brought up by hand. His associates were a Canary, a Blue Jay and an Oriole. The Canary had been purchased at a bird store, and had there learned its song. The Blue Jay and Oriole had been taken from neighboring nests, and had, no doubt, picked up the characteristic notes of their species from the many other members of their kind that inhabited the vicinity, but it was many miles to the nearest swamp or low land where one might find a Red-winged Blackbird. This Red-wing had learned perfectly the notes of his caged companions, and had picked up some notes of other birds in the neighborhood, but not one note of the Red-winged Blackbird did he know.--Frank E. Horack, _Iowa City, Ia._

=Book News and Reviews=

Birds. By A. H. Evans, M.A. The Cambridge Natural History, Vol.
IX. London: Macmillan and Co., Limited. New York: The Macmillan
Company. 1899. 8vo, pages xvi + 635. Numerous woodcuts in text.
Price, $3.50.