Chapter III: Introduction (2)

Very early in my experience as a hunter I became acquainted with a small black-and-white bird, who not only announced himself with unmistakable distinctness, but did so at such close range that one could form a very clear idea of his appearance; and thus because of his notes and trustfulness I learned to know the Chickadee by name years before I was aware that the woods were tenanted by dozens of other more common but less fearless birds.

With regret for the universality of the instinct, I found that to see was to desire. I had felt exactly the same longing in regard to other birds, and had thrown many a stone in a fruitless effort to get possession of the half-mysterious wild creatures which always eluded me; but the Chickadee came within range of my bean-shooter and soon paid the penalty of misplaced confidence. The little ball of flesh and fluffy feathers was perfectly useless, so after a day or two, the length of time depending on the temperature, it was thrown away.

My curiosity concerning the Chickadee being satisfied, and the bird’s tameness making it too easy a mark even for a bean-shooter, I entered on a new phase of Chickadee relations. Strangely enough, the killing of the bird seemed, from my point of view, to constitute an introduction to a creature which before I had known only imperfectly, and my acquaintance with the Chickadee may be said to have begun when I picked up the first bird that fell before my aim. However the Chickadee may have regarded my somewhat questionable manner of gaining his friendship, he has since given unmistakable evidences of his approval of my treatment of his kind. He always replies to my greeting, often coming many yards in answer to my call, and on a number of occasions he has honored me above most men by alighting on my hand.

When, in more recent years, the gun which succeeded the bean-shooter was in turn replaced by a camera, I found that the Chickadee’s tameness made him a mark for my later as he had been for my earlier efforts in bird hunting. Now, however, I believe I may speak for him as well as for myself, and say that the results obtained are more satisfactory to us both. It was in Central Park, New York city, in February, 1899, that I went on one of my first Chickadee hunts with a camera. Incidentally the locality gave emphasis to the advantages of the camera over any other weapon. Imagine the surprise of the park police had I ventured on their precincts with a gun on my shoulder! But with a camera I could snap away at pleasure without any one’s being the wiser—many of my “snaps,” I confess being attended by exactly this result. At this time, through the efforts of an enthusiastic and patient bird lover, who had improved on the bird-catching legend by using nuts instead of “salt” and by substituting bill for “tail,” three Chickadees in the Ramble had become so remarkably tame that they would often flutter before one’s face and plainly give expression to their desire for food, which they took from one’s hand without the slightest evidence of fear. Sometimes they even remained to pick the nut from a shell while perched on one’s finger, anon casting questioning glances at their host; but more often they preferred a perch where they could give their entire attention to the nut which was held between their feet, and pecked at after the manner of Blue Jays.

In spite of the ease with which one could approach these Chickadees, they made difficult marks for the camera. I was armed with a “Henry Clay” 5 × 7 and a twin-lens camera of the same size, but so active were the little creatures that not one of many exposures proved to be perfectly focused. Finally I tried decoying the birds to a bone or bit of bread in the bushes, but somehow they did not succeed in discovering these baits until they were placed on the ground.^{24, 25} Then they responded so quickly that often the bread had disappeared while my head was concealed by the dark-cloth, and frequently, while focusing, the birds would alight on the tripod of the camera. I was forced, therefore, to focus on a stone, and, when ready to make the exposure, lay a bit of bread on or near the focal point, the two pictures given being thus obtained.

Various experiences with these unusually tame birds finally led to what at first thought would have been considered the wholly unreasonable ambition of photographing one of them in my hand. The camera was therefore erected at a suitable point and focused on the trunk of a tree, the shutter set, and slide drawn.

Now to get the bird. None was in the immediate vicinity, but a whistle soon brought a response from some neighboring tree tops, and going beneath them I shortly had called the bird down to a nut in my palm, and with him on my finger started to walk the eighty or more feet to the camera. This, however, was asking too much, and the bird abandoned his moving perch for a bordering row of evergreens, from which one or two more trials brought him within a short distance of the desired spot, and resting my arm against the tree trunk and with the other hand on the trigger of the shutter I called again the two plaintive notes. The bird’s faith was still strong. Almost immediately he took the desired position, when a _click_ announced the realization of a bird photographer’s wildest dream.

Fortunate is the bird photographer who discovers an advantageously situated Chickadee’s nest. Dr. Robert’s charming description in Bird-Lore of his experience with a family of Chickadees stimulated my desire to make a camera study of this species. The first nest found, however, was claimed by a band of roving boys, who in pure wantonness pushed down the stub from which a few days later the young would have issued.

A second time I was more fortunate. It was on the morning of May 29, 1899, at Englewood, N. J., that in going through a young second growth I chanced to see a Chickadee, who in arranging her much-worn plumage gave unmistakable evidence of having recently left her nest. At once I looked about for a partly decayed white birch, a tree especially suited to the Chickadee’s powers and needs. The bark remains tough and leathery long after the interior is crumbling, and having penetrated the outer shell the Chickadee finds no difficulty in excavating a chamber within.

A few moments’ search revealed a stub so typical as to match exactly the image I held in my mind’s eye, with an opening about four feet from the ground. The interior was too gloomy to enable one to determine its contents, but, returning in half an hour, I tapped the stub lightly, when, as though I had released the spring of a Jack-in-a-box, a Chickadee popped out of the opening and into a neighboring tree. I wished her good morning, assured her that my intentions were of the best, and promised to return and secure her portrait at the first opportunity.

Four days later I set up my camera before the door to the Chickadee’s dwelling, and, without attempting to conceal it, attached thread to the shutter and retreated in the undergrowth to a distance of about twenty-five feet.

After having had most discouraging experiences with several birds, who had evidently regarded the camera as a monster of destruction, and had refused to return to their nests as long as the evil eye of the lens was on them, it was consoling to find a bird who had some degree of confidence in human nature as represented by photographic apparatus.

It is true that the female—and throughout this description I assume that the bird with much-worn plumage was of this sex—promptly left the stub at my approach; but when I retired to the undergrowth there was no tiresome wait of hours while the bird, flitting from bush to bush, chirped suspiciously, but almost immediately she returned to her home.^{27} The camera was examined, but clearly not considered dangerous, its tripod sometimes serving as a step to the nest entrance. The click of the shutter, however, when an exposure was made as the bird was about to enter its dwelling, caused some alarm, and she flew back to a neighboring tree, and for some time hopped restlessly from limb to limb.

The male, who had previously kept in the background, now approached, and, as if to soothe his troubled mate, thoughtfully gave her a caterpillar. She welcomed him with a gentle, tremulous fluttering of the wings—a motion similar to that made by young birds when begging for food. He, however, made what appeared to be precisely the same movements when she perched beside him.

It was not long before the female became so accustomed to the snap of the shutter that in order to prevent her from entering the nest I was forced to rush out from my hiding place; but at last, apparently becoming desperate, she succeeded in returning to her eggs in spite of my best efforts to prevent her.

There now ensued a very interesting change in the bird’s action. It will be remembered that at first she had left the nest on hearing me approach, while a light tap brought her through the opening with startling promptness. But now, evidently realizing that a return to her duties of incubation could be made only at great risk, she determined under no conditions to leave her eggs. In vain I rapped at her door and shook her dwelling to its foundations; no bird appeared, and not believing it possible that under the circumstances she would remain within the stub, I felt that she must have left without my knowledge, and therefore retired to await her reappearance.

At the end of several minutes the male, with food in his bill, advanced cautiously, and clinging to the rim of the nest opening, hung there a moment and departed minus the food. This was surprising. Could there be young in the nest? or was the bird, in imitation of the Hornbill, feeding his imprisoned mate? I rapped again, and this time, perhaps taken unawares, the female answered my question by appearing.

On June 3d a family arrived in the Chickadee villa, and both birds were found actively engaged in administering to its wants.

As a return for the inconvenience to which they had been subjected, a perch was erected by way of a step at their door. The female was appreciative and at once availed herself of this means of entering her home.^{28} The male, however, as before, was more wary. He had braved the camera to bring food to his mate, but his offspring had apparently not so strong a claim upon him. He would fly off in search of food and shortly return with a caterpillar, then perch quietly for several minutes a few yards from the nest, when, repelled by the camera and attracted by the food in his bill, he yielded to temptation, devoured the caterpillar, vigorously wiped his bill, at once started to forage for more food, and returned with it only to repeat his previous performance.

Occasionally he uttered a low whistle, addressed presumably to the female, and at times a _chickadee-dee-dee_, which I interpreted as a protest to me, and both notes were also uttered by the female.

The latter took so kindly to the doorstep that it was determined to give her a door, and to this end a leaf was pinned over the entrance to her home in such a manner that it swung to and fro, like the latch to a keyhole. This clearly did not meet with her approval, and at first she seemed puzzled to account for the apparent disappearance of the nest opening. But in less than a minute she solved the mystery, pushed the leaf to one side, and disappeared within.

Returning to the nest on June 12th, nothing was to be seen of either parent, and I feared that they or their offspring had fallen victims to the countless dangers which beset nesting birds and their young. Looking about for some clew to their fate, I found on the ground, near the nest stub, the worn tail-feathers of the female bird. The molting season had not yet arrived, nor would she have shed all these feathers at the same moment. There could therefore be only one interpretation of their presence. Some foe—probably a Sharp-shinned or Cooper’s Hawk, since the predaceous mammals for the most part hunt at night, when the Chickadee would be snugly sleeping in her nest—had made a dash and grasped her by the tail, which she had sacrificed in escaping. A moment later the theory was supported by the appearance of a subdued-looking Chickadee, _sans_ tail, and I congratulated her on her fortunate exchange of life for a member which of late had not been very decorative, and of which, in any event, Nature would have soon deprived her.

The young proved to be nearly ready to fly, and, carefully removing the front of their log cabin, a sight was disclosed such as mortal probably never beheld before and Chickadee but rarely.

Six black-and-white heads were raised and six yellow-lined mouths opened in expressive appeal for food. But this was not all; there was another layer of Chickadees below—how many it was impossible to say without disentangling a wad of birds so compact that the outlines of no one bird could be distinguished. A piazza, as it were, was built at the Chickadees’ threshold in the shape of a perch of proper size, and beneath, as a life net, was spread a piece of mosquito bar. Then I proceeded to individualize the ball of feathers; one, two, three, to seven were counted without undue surprise, but when an eighth and ninth were added, I marveled at the energy which had supplied so many mouths with food, and at the same time wondered how many caterpillars had been devoured by this one family of birds.

Not less remarkable than the number of young—and no book that I have consulted records so large a brood—was their condition. Not only did they all appear lusty, but they seemed to be about equally developed, the slight difference in strength and size which existed being easily attributable to a difference in age, some interval doubtless having elapsed between the hatching of the first and last egg.

This fact would have been of interest had the birds inhabited an open nest, or a nest large enough for them all to have had an equal opportunity to receive food; but where only two thirds of their number could be seen from above at once, and where a very little neglect would have resulted fatally, it seems remarkable that one or more, failing to receive his share of food, had not been weakened in consequence and crushed to death by more fortunate members of the brood. Nor was their physical condition the only surprising thing about the members of this Chickadee family: each individual was as clean as though he had been reared in a nest alone, and an examination of the nest showed that it would have been passed as perfect by the most scrupulous sanitary inspector. It was composed of firmly padded rabbit’s fur, and, except for the sheaths worn off the growing feathers of the young birds, was absolutely clean. Later, I observed that the excreta of the young were inclosed in membranous sacs, which enabled the parents to readily remove them from the nest.

The last bird having been placed in the net, I attempted to pose them in a row on the perch before their door. The task reminded me of almost forgotten efforts at building card houses, which, when nearly completed, would be brought to ruin by an ill-placed card. How many times each Chickadee tumbled or fluttered from his perch I can not say. The soft, elastic net, spread beneath them, preserved them from injury, and bird after bird was returned to his place so little worse for his fall that he was quite ready to try it again. Finally, eight birds were induced to take the positions assigned them; then, in assisting the ninth to his allotted place, the balance of a bird on either side would be disturbed, and down into the net they would go.

These difficulties, however, could be overcome, but not so the failure of the light at the critical time, making it necessary to expose with a wide open lens at the loss of a depth of focus.

The picture presented, therefore, does not do the subject justice. Nor can it tell of the pleasure with which each fledgeling for the first time stretched its wings and legs to their full extent, and preened its plumage with before unknown freedom.

At the same time they uttered a satisfied little _dee-dee-dee_, in quaint imitation of their elders. When I whistled their well-known _phe-be_ note, they were at once on the alert, and evidently expected to be fed.

The birds were within two or three days of leaving the nest, and, the sitting over, the problem came of returning the flock to a cavity barely two inches in diameter, the bottom of which was almost filled by one bird.

I at once confess a failure to restore anything like the condition in which they were found, and when the front of their dwelling was replaced, Chickadees were overflowing at the door. If their healthfulness had not belied the thought, I should have supposed it impossible for them to exist in such close quarters.

A few days later their home was deserted, and, as no other Chickadees were known to nest in the vicinity, I imagine them to compose a troop of birds which is sometimes found in the neighborhood.

THE LEAST BITTERN AND SOME OTHER REED INHABITANTS

My experience with the Least Bittern leaves the eerie little creature a half-solved mystery, and I think of it less as a bird than as a survivor of a former geological period, when birds still showed traits of their not distant reptilian ancestors.

The Bittern’s home is in fresh-water, cat-tail marshes, and he wanders at will through the thickly set forest of reeds without of necessity putting foot to the water below or flapping wing in the air above. His peculiar mode of progression constitutes one of his chief characteristics. The reeds in which he lives generally grow in several feet of water, far too deep, therefore, to permit of his wading; while his secretive disposition makes him averse to appearing in the open, except after nightfall. It is impossible to fly through the cat-tails, and so the bird walks and even runs through them, stepping from stem to stem with surprising agility. I had heard of this habit, but the description conveyed as little idea of the bird’s appearance as it is feared this one will, and when for the first time a Least Bittern was seen striding off through the reeds about three feet above the water, the performance was so entirely unlike anything I had ever seen a bird do before, I marveled that his acrobatic powers had not made him famous.

The feathered gymnast’s slender body—or perhaps one should say neck, for the bird is chiefly neck and head—seemed to be mounted on long stilts, with the aid of which he waded rapidly through the water, his head shooting in and out at each stride.

The Least Bittern’s notes appear to be less known than his habits. Nuttall, that exceptionally keen-eared bird student, was familiar with them, but most writers have restricted themselves to the statement that, when flushed, the bird utters a low _qua_, while some have even said he was voiceless.

I should not be in the least surprised to learn that this uncanny inhabitant of the reeds had a call fully as remarkable as the vocal performance of his large relative, the American Bittern, but thus far in my slight acquaintance with him he has been heard to utter only four notes: A soft, low _coo_, slowly repeated five or six times, and which is probably the love song of the male; an explosive alarm note, _quoh_; a hissing _hah_, with which the bird threatens a disturber of its nest; and a low _tut-tut-tut_, apparently a protest against the same kind of intrusion.

It was the markedly dovelike _coo_ which first introduced me to this species. With William Brewster I was at the Fresh Pond marshes, listening for the repetition of some strange calls which had excited the curiosity of Cambridge ornithologists, and which proved to belong to a Florida Gallinule,[B] when we heard the soft notes of a Least Bittern, who soon rose from the marsh near by. A few days later the Bittern was found in full song—if the _coo_ be its song—in the marshes of Presque Isle in Erie Bay; but it must be confessed that a desire to secure specimens of this, to me, strange bird left no opportunity to study its habits, and the species was not again observed until June, 1898, in the northern part of Cayuga County, New York. Here, under the guidance of an observing local ornithologist, Mr. E. G. Tabor, an encounter was had with a Least Bittern which made a unique page in my experience as a bird student.

Footnote B:

See Brewster, Auk, vol. viii, 1891, p. 1.

It was on the border of Otter Lake, where the Least Bitterns nest in small numbers in low bushes, or a mass of drift, or more often in the fringe of cat-tails. The trail of a boat through the reeds and empty nests, which before had held from three to five eggs, marked the ill-directed work of the boy oölogists whose misspent zeal has resulted in such a vast accumulation of eggshells and such an absence of information about the birds that laid them. A visit to a more distant part of the lake, where even thus early in the year the cat-tails were five feet above water of over half that depth, saved the day, as far as Least Bitterns were concerned. Paddling close to the reeds, a practiced eye could distinguish the site of a Bittern’s nest, when the nest itself was invisible, by the bowed tips of the reeds which the bird invariably bends over it.^{31} The object of this habit is perhaps to aid in concealing the eggs from an enemy passing overhead—a Crow, for example—an attack by boat evidently not being taken into consideration.

Certainly our appearance was in the nature of a surprise to a pair of birds who had just completed their platformlike nest and were apparently discussing future steps in their domestic affairs.

As we approached, the female, who even before the eggs are laid seems to have the home love more strongly developed than the male, bravely stuck to her post, while the male marched off through the reeds in the manner which has been described as so remarkable. When he paused, with either foot grasping reeds several inches apart or clung to a single stalk with both feet, he resembled a gigantic, tailless Marsh Wren.

The actions of the female were interesting in the extreme. Her first move was an attempt at concealment through protective mimicry—a rare device among birds. Stretching her neck to the utmost, she pointed her bill to the zenith, the brownish marks on the feathers of the throat became lines which, separated by the white spaces between them, might easily have passed for dried reeds, and the bird’s statuelike pose, when almost within reach, evinced her belief in her own invisibility.^{33, 34}

The pose recalled Hudson’s experience with a wounded Least Bittern (_Ardetta involucris_, a near relative of our bird) in the marshes of La Plata, where a bird at his feet, in the same position as the one before me, was discovered only after careful search, and which, to the naturalist’s amazement, slowly revolved as he walked around it, with the presumable object of keeping its protectively colored breast turned toward him.

My bird, however, was among fresh reeds, and while one can not doubt the effectiveness of its attitude and color, when seen among dead reeds or grasses, neither were of value among its green surroundings.

With the light on the wrong side and the reeds swaying violently in the wind, we essayed to picture the bird, and the best of several attempts made under these adverse conditions are here given.

Covering my hand with my cap I held it toward her, when, convinced that her little trick had failed, she adopted new tactics, and struck at me with force and rapidity, which made me thankful that my hand was protected. Her bright yellow eyes glared with the intensity of a snake’s, and her reptilelike appearance was increased by the length and slenderness of her head and neck. Her courage was admirable; she not only displayed no fear, but was actually aggressive, and with a hissing _hah_ struck viciously at my hand each time it was placed near the nest. As I quickly retreated on each occasion, and at length made no further move toward her, she decided to withdraw, perhaps to join her cautious mate, who from the reeds had been uttering a warning _tut-tut-tut_ at intervals. Very slowly and watchfully she left the nest, and when she had advanced a few feet through the reeds I again ventured to touch her platform home, putting my hand, however, under it; but the motion instantly attracted her attention, and, darting back to her post, she was on guard in a moment. Then I left her, retiring from the field fairly vanquished in my first hand-to-bill encounter with a wild bird. I hope she laid a full complement of five eggs and from them reared five birds worthy representatives of their mother.

A desire to renew my acquaintance with—or perhaps I should say advances toward—this unbirdlike feathered biped, and to meet it under conditions more favorable for the camera hunter, brought me the following year (June 17, 1899), to the Montezuma marshes at the head of Cayuga Lake. Here are endless forests of cat-tails in which dwell not only Bitterns, Long-billed Marsh Wrens, and Red-winged Blackbirds, but also numbers of Pied-billed Grebes and Florida Gallinules.

There is a mystery about a marsh akin to that which impresses one in a primeval forest. The possibilities of both seem limitless. One hears so much and sees so little. Birds calling from a distance of only a few yards may remain long unidentified. A rustling in the reeds arouses vague expectations.

The notes of marsh-inhabiting birds are in keeping with the character of their haunts. They are distinctly wild and strange, and often thrilling. The Rails, for example, all have singular, loud, startling calls. The American Bittern is a famous marsh songster, but although several of his common names are based on his calls, it is only recently that he has actually been seen uttering them. The Gallinule resembles the hen in the character, volume, and variety of its notes, and to it and not the Clapper Rail should be given the name “Marsh Hen.” Indeed, its European relative, from which it can scarcely be distinguished, is known as the Moor Hen or Water Hen.

But of all this marsh music none to my ear is more singular than the call of the Pied-billed Grebe. It is mentioned in few books, and has won the bird no such fame as the Loon’s maniacal laughter has brought him, though as a vocalist the Grebe fairly rivals his large cousin. Like most bird calls it is indescribable, but perhaps sufficient idea of its character may be given to lead to its identification when heard. It is very loud and sonorous, with a cuckoolike quality, and may be written _cow-cow-cow-cow-cow-cow-cow-cow-cow-uh, cow-uh, cow-uh, cow-uh_. These notes vary in number, and are sometimes followed by prolonged wailing _cows_ or _ohs_ almost human in their expressiveness of pain, fear, and anguish.

This is the love song of the male, and when he has won a mate she joins him in singing, uttering, as he calls, a rapid _cuk-cuk-cuk_, followed by a slower _ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh_.

The Gallinules were cackling in the reeds, where a nest with three hatching eggs was found, but not a bird was seen. Red-winged Blackbirds were chattering with excitement as they guided the first wing strokes of their young, who perched on the reeds begged eloquently for food rather than for lessons in flying.^{35}

In a small island of cat-tails a pair of Grebes was calling, and after the most careful stalking my companion saw the female respond to the voice of her mate.

It was in this island—if a patch of cat-tails growing in three feet of water can be called an island—that we found the first two of numerous Least Bitterns’ nests, and here our camera studies were made. These nests were typical in form and site; one contained five and the other four^{32} eggs, from which the birds had apparently departed as we pushed our boat toward them.

Less than twenty minutes later we again passed these nests and found, to our surprise, that in one all four, and in the other two eggs had been punctured, as if by an awl. Here was a mystery which my companion, who was examining the second nest while I was studying the first, quickly solved by seeing a Long-billed Marsh Wren actually make an attack on the remaining three eggs, and a little later a bird of the same species—perhaps the same individual, since the Bitterns’ nests were not more than twenty yards apart—visited the first nest to complete its work on the five already ruined eggs.

Our attempt to photograph the energetic little marauder failed, nor did we succeed in learning the real cause of its remarkable destructiveness. However, the fact that in one nest alone it drove its needlelike bill into all five eggs without pausing to feast on their contents, would imply that it was not prompted by hunger, and, much against our will, we were forced to attribute the bird’s actions to pure viciousness; though, it is true, there may have been another side to the story, in which the Bittern was the culprit.

The owners of the four eggs did not return while we were present, and the following day we found their nest empty—a mute protest against fate.

The female of the second nest discovered, in which only two of the five eggs had been injured, proved to be a bird of character.

While we waited in our boats at a distance of fifteen feet, and with cameras erected on tripods at a third of the distance, she came walking through the reeds uttering occasionally an explosive _quoh!_ After circling about us several times she climbed to her nest, and at once proceeded to investigate the condition of its contents. Soon she gave evidence of the possession of both a philosophic and economic disposition, not to mention other housewifely qualities, notably cleanliness. Philosophy she exhibited by making the best of things as she found them; economy by carefully eating^{36} the two broken eggs, which a more thoughtless bird would have deserted or quickly discarded; and cleanliness by carefully dropping over the edge of the nest the shells remaining from her peculiar feast, and following them by bits of nest lining which had been soiled by portions of the egg. This task accomplished to her satisfaction, she gave further evidence of the possession of a well-ordered mind by descending to the water, washing her bill, drinking, and then returning to her remaining three eggs, on which she settled herself^{37} as complacently as though she had met with no loss, and there we left her in well-deserved privacy.

TWO HERONS

In this age of death and destruction to all living creatures, which, because of their size or edible qualities, the so-called sportsman is proud to exhibit as evidence of his skill afield, it is remarkable that there should exist within twenty odd miles of New York’s City Hall a colony of Herons which would do credit to the most remote swamp of Florida.

Three factors have combined to render this rookery possible: first, its isolation; second, the habits of its occupants; and third, the protection which is afforded it by the owner of the land on which it is situated. Of these, the first is by far the most important, and I may be pardoned, therefore, if I do not betray the birds’ secret; for, much as I desire to encourage American industries, I must on this occasion withhold information of undoubted value to the feather trade.

The birds’ habits contribute toward their preservation, because they are largely nocturnal, “Night” being the specific name applied by the text-books to this particular kind of Heron; but to those who know him in nature, he is generally spoken of as “Quawk,” this being an excellent rendering of his common call.

The Night Heron or Quawk belongs among the birds for whom the setting sun marks the beginning of a new day—a fact which protects him from man and permits his existence in numbers where others of his family are rarely seen. Doubtless many of the residents of Heronville know their feathered neighbors only as a voice from the night, which comes to them when the birds, in passing over, utter their loud and startling call.

Finally, to the protecting influences of a love for seclusion and darkness must be added the unusual position assumed by the proprietor of the land, who will not permit any one to kill the birds, and, stranger still, does not kill them himself!

Thus it happens that any day in May or June, the months during which the Herons are at home, one may leave the crowded streets of New York and within an hour or so enter an equally crowded but quite different kind of town.

If after leaving the train you secure the same guide it was my good fortune to have, your way will lead over shaded roads, pleasant fields, and quiet woodland paths, and, if the sun is well up in the trees, you may enter the outskirts of the rookery and be wholly unaware, unless you approach from the leeward, that between two and three thousand Herons are within a few hundred yards of you.

One may gain a far better idea of Heron life, however, by visiting the rookery while the foliage is still glistening with dew. Then, from a distance, a chorus of croaks may be heard from the young birds as they receive what, in effect, is their supper. Old birds are still returning from fishing trips, and the froglike monotone of the young is broken by the sudden _quawks_ of their parents.

The rookery is in a low part of the woods which evidently is flooded early in the year, a fact which may have influenced the Herons in their selection of the locality as a nesting site. At the time of our visit the swamp maples, in which the nests are placed, were densely undergrown with ferns, and as we approached the whitened vegetation, which clearly marked the limits of the rookery, a number of Herons with squawks of alarm left the vicinity of their nests, and soon the rookery was in an uproar. The common _quawk_ note was often heard, but many of the calls were distinctly galline in character and conveyed the impression that we had invaded a henroost.

The trees in which the nests were placed are very tall and slender, mere poles some of them, with a single nest where the branches fork; while those more heavily limbed had four, five,^{38} and even six of the platforms of sticks, which with Herons serve as nests, but in only a single instance was one nest placed directly below another. A conservative count yielded a total of five hundred and twenty-five nests, all within a circle about one hundred yards in diameter, nearly every suitable tree holding one or more, the lowest being about thirty feet from the ground, the highest at least eighty feet above it.

While the limy deposits and partially digested fish dropped by the birds seemed not to affect the growth of the lower vegetation, it had a marked influence on certain of the swamp maples, the development of the trees which held a number of nests being so retarded that, although it was June 13th, they were as yet only in blossom.^{38} The comparative absence of foliage permitted one to have a far better view of what was going on above than if the trees had been thickly leaved, and on entering the rookery our attention was at once attracted by the nearly grown Herons, who, old enough to leave the nest, had climbed out on the adjoining limbs. There, silhouetted against the sky, they crouched in family groups of two, three, and four.^{39}

Other broods, inhabitants of more thickly leaved trees, made known their presence above by disgorging a half-digested eel, which dropped with a thud at our feet and occasionally nearer, suggesting the advisability of carrying an umbrella. The vegetation beneath the well-populated trees was as white as though it had been liberally daubed with whitewash, and the ground was strewn with blue-green eggshells neatly broken in two across the middle; fish, principally eels, in various stages of digestion and decay; and the bodies of young birds who had met with an untimely death by falling from above. It was not altogether a savory place!

Seating ourselves at the base of an unoccupied tree, we had not long to wait before the normal life of the rookery was resumed. The young, who while we were observed had been silent, now began to utter a singular, froglike _kik-kik-kik_ in chorus, and the old birds one by one returned. When food was brought an increased outcry was heard from the expectant youngsters about to be fed. At intervals a resounding _thump_ announced the fall of some too eager bird, but, in the cases which we investigated, the Heron, if fairly well grown, seemed to be little the worse for his tumble of from fifty to seventy feet, and with lowered head ran through the undergrowth with surprising quickness. With those which were younger, however, the mortality had evidently been great, and, seeing the dozens of dead birds on the ground beneath the nest trees from which they had fallen, one questioned whether this habit of nesting high in trees had not, for protective reasons, been recently acquired by a species the young of which would seem much more at home nearer the ground.

It was with a delightful sense of companionship with the birds that I observed them going and coming, feeding their young, or resting after the night’s labors, wholly undisturbed by my presence. Almost I seemed to be a guest of the rookery, and I longed for power to interpret the notes and actions of the birds so abundant about me.

So I should like to have passed the day with them, becoming for the time being a Heron myself; but the desire to picture the birds was stronger than the wish to be a Heron, and the situation was considered from the standpoint of the bird photographer.

The rookery proved to be a difficult subject. No single view would convey an adequate idea of its appearance, and I therefore selected representative tree tops and photographed their nests and young birds. A visit to a neighboring pond resulted in securing, with the aid of a telephoto, a picture^{40} of two adult birds feeding well out of gunshot, and with the assistance of climbers I reached the upper branches of a tree some seventy feet in height containing five nests whose contents ranged from eggs to nearly grown young. With the ball-and-socket clamp the camera was fastened to favoring limbs, and after three hours’ work several satisfactory pictures of young in the nest and on the adjoining branches were secured.^{41–43} Although well able to defend themselves, the young assumed no such threatening attitudes as the American Bittern strikes when alarmed, from which perhaps we may argue that they are happily ignorant of the dangers which beset their ground-nesting relative.

As the sun crept upward and the last fishers returned, the calls of both old and young birds were heard less and less often, and by ten o’clock night had fallen on the rookery and the birds were all resting quietly. Four o’clock in the afternoon was evidently early morning, and at this hour the birds first began to leave the rookery for their fishing grounds. Some went toward the north, others to the south, east or west; each bird no doubt having clearly in mind some favorite shore, perhaps a dozen miles away, where he before had had good luck a-fishing; and of all the varied phases of rookery life the thought of this regular nightly expedition of hundreds of winged fishers, is to me the most attractive.

Our largest Heron as well as our largest bird is the Great Blue. “Crane” he is popularly called; but, aside from other differences, the bird’s habit of folding its neck back on its shoulders, when on the wing, will distinguish it from true Cranes, who fly with neck extended to the utmost.

The Great Blue Heron is not edible, but its size makes it a desirable prize to most gunners and it is considered an especially fit mark for a rifle. The temptation is strong to condemn as an outlaw the man who kills one of these noble birds for what he terms sport, or perhaps for the purpose of what he would call having it “set up.” He, however, is acting according to his light, which is quite as bright as that which shines for most of his neighbors. The Heron is exceedingly wild, and its capture is eloquent evidence of the hunter’s prowess, while his desire to have its stuffed skin adorn his home is, from his point of view, positively commendable. That the bird is infinitely more valuable alive than dead, that its presence adds an element to the landscape more pleasing to some than could be imparted by any work of man, and that in depriving others of the privilege of observing its singularly stately grace of pose and motion he is selfish beyond expression, does not even vaguely occur to this so-called “sportsman,” who belongs in the class to whom a majestic cliff is a quarry, a noble tree, lumber. Until he has been educated to properly value the beauties of Nature, or at least realize the rights of others in them, he must be restrained by law, to the force of which even he is not blind.

Only the Great Blue Heron’s extreme wariness and habit of frequenting shores and marshes where it can command an extended view of its surroundings has preserved it from extinction; but when nesting it is compelled to visit woodlands where its human enemies have better opportunities to approach it, and its only chance for safety during the breeding season is to select a retreat remote from the home of man. For this reason Great Blue Heron rookeries are exceedingly uncommon in more settled parts of the bird’s range, and north of Florida I have seen their nests in only one locality.

It was the week after my visit to the Night Herons that, in northern Cayuga County, New York, I was led by a local ornithologist through one of the heaviest pieces of timber I have ever seen north of a primeval tropical forest, in search of a Great Blue Heron rookery which he knew to exist, and only my confidence in his woodsmanship gave me courage to follow him over fallen trees and through the season’s dense undergrowth, from which our passage raised such a host of mosquitoes that every step was a battle. If the vicious little insects had lived only to protect the Herons, they could not have disputed our progress more valiantly, and on reaching the birds’ stronghold, where the comparative absence of undergrowth deprived our winged foes of shelter, I congratulated myself on what, for the moment, seemed to be no insignificant feat.

The eleven nests which my guide had seen on a previous occasion were found occupying their former positions, at least one hundred feet from the ground in dead trees, one of which held five of the eleven. During the many years which the birds have nested in the place their number has not varied, and one wonders what becomes of the from thirty to forty young who doubtless each year leave the parental trees. No other Herons of this species are known to nest in the vicinity, and it is not probable that the progeny of each year would seek a nesting site in some far distant rookery; consequently, as an alternative explanation, we can only suppose that the yearly product of the rookery balances its losses by death.

The young birds were now nearly half grown, but, unlike the Night Herons, they did not venture outside their nests, from which they uttered harsh croaks in evident supplication to their parents for food. The sight of the trees in which the nests were placed effectually controlled whatever ambitions I had entertained toward camera studies at short range, and I contented myself by making telephotos from the ground, in one of which an adult bird and two nests, each with a young bird appearing above its edge, may be seen.^{44}

Time was lacking in which to observe these birds, and the value of my visit to their retreat is not to be expressed in words. The wildness of their home seemed in perfect accord with their nature, and their apparent safety from intrusion brought a sense of satisfaction which colors my memory of the whole experience.

WHERE SWALLOWS ROOST

Contributing little to the material wealth of the nation, the Hackensack marshes of northern New Jersey are usually regarded as “waste land.” By the farmer they are termed “salt medders,” and their waving grasses are of value to him only as “bedding” for cattle. In winter the muskrat hunter reaps a harvest of pelts there. The down of the “cat-tails” is gathered for cushion stuffing, and the bladed leaves for chair bottoms. To the gunner they are the resort of Ducks, Snipe, Rail, and Reedbirds, which each year visit them in decreasing numbers; while to the thousands who daily pass them on the encircling railroads they are barren and uninteresting. But if beauty is a sufficient cause for being, then these marshes may claim a right to existence.

In preglacial times this region was probably forested, but now the forest is buried beneath the drift of the glacier which deposited fragments of Palisade and Orange Mountain trap rock on Staten Island. During the depression of the land which occurred as the ice gradually receded, the waters of the sea doubtless passed up here and the meadow was a larger “Newark Bay.” Then commenced their slow filling up by the silt brought down by the Hackensack River. The river has preserved a right of way, but the bay has given place to a sea of reeds and grasses.

On a bright August morning I mount a spur of trap rock which reaches out from the western base of the Palisades, and from this elevation have an uninterrupted view over the meadows. The cool, invigorating air foretells the approach of autumn; it is brilliantly clear. The Orange hills stand out with the distinctness of Western mountains. The sun is at my back, and the light shows the meadows to the best advantage. At this distance I get the effect of only the masses of color; tracts of yellowish green meadow grass tinged with copper, and in places thickly sprinkled with the white flowers of the water hemlock and water parsnip; streaks of light green wild rice, and sharply defined areas of dark green cat-tail flags. The grass grows on the drier land, the wild rice in the small sloughs and creeks which are bordered by the flags. In the spring the wind blows the pollen from the cat-tail blossoms, and a shifting greenish vapor floats over the marsh; in the autumn a heavy westerly wind raises the seed-bearing down high in the air, carries it over the Palisades, across the Hudson, and it descends like a fall of fleecy snow on wondering New York.

The marsh is a vast arena inclosed by the Palisades and Passaic hills; it is a great plain, with blue stretches of the winding river appearing here and there, and the haystacks are the huts of aborigines. I half close my eyes, and it is a copper-yellow sea. The grasses roll in undulating waves, capped by a white crest of parsnip and hemlock blossoms; the dark irregular patches of flags are the shadows of clouds, the light streaks of wild rice are shoals, a hovering Marsh Hawk is a Gull. A stately white-winged schooner^{45} comes up the river; her hull is hidden by the meadow grasses; she is sailing through the sea of my fancy.

This is an impressionist’s view of the meadows. Now let us leave our rocky lookout and examine them more in detail. The meadow we are leaving is a meadow of all summer; the one we are approaching is a meadow clad in all the glory of its August flowers. One might think Nature was holding a flower show here, so gorgeous is the display. The railway track at the edge of the marsh is apparently an endless aisle bordered by a rich exhibit of flowers. Clusters of thoroughwort and purple loose-strife grow so abundantly they give color to the foreground, through which wild sunflowers make streaks of gold. There are solid beds of purple asters on the drier land, and delicate snow-white saggitarias in the sloughs. Jewel flowers sparkle through the flags, and convolvulus hangs from the reeds, its own foliage scarce showing, or, growing with the fragrant climbing hempweed, it forms banks of dense vegetation. The scarlet lobelia darts upward like a tongue of flame, startling in its intense brilliancy. There are burnet, vervain, gerardia, and running groundnut. But it is the marsh^{46} mallow which, more than any other flower, gives beauty to the meadow. It grows here with wasteful luxuriance, and the dark masses of flags serve as a frame for this floral picture. Out in the marsh it grows in equal profusion; the meadow is hung with small pink lanterns, as if for a _fête_. A single flower of the marsh mallow commands the attention of the most unobservant, and when growing in abundance it excites enthusiastic admiration.

Nor is the animal life of the marsh less interesting than its flora. Meadow mice nest beneath the haycocks. Were it not for the minks and Hawks which prey on them, they might become a scourge throughout the surrounding country. Muskrats are living in peaceful security in their snug summer homes, hollowed from the banks of the streams. They are the true villagers here, and pass the winter in icy huts, like Eskimos. Out in the grasses Short-eared Owls are hiding. Their day begins when the sun disappears behind the Orange hills; then one may hear the “quawk” of the Night Heron. Red-winged Blackbirds nest here, and in the autumn they gather in great flocks and feed on the wild rice.

Long-billed Marsh Wrens—small, nervous, excitable bits of feathered life—are abundant in the flags, and to them they attach their large woven nests. Except for a harsh, scolding note they are silent now, but earlier in the year the marsh is musical with their rippling songs. The fervor of the love season overcomes their fondness for the dark recesses of the flags, and, singing, they rise into the air as if driven upward by the mine of melody which explodes within them.

Swamp Sparrows are common, and their clear trill is one of the few August songs. Bobolinks, traveling in disguise and under the assumed name of “Reedbird,” pause here to feed on the ripening wild rice.^{47} Some of them have not yet completed their change of costume and appear in a spotted suit of black and yellow. Occasionally one hears a suppressed burst of the “mad music” of June, but their common note is a metallic _chink_. At night this note is heard from high in the air, as the birds continue their journey to the cultivated rice fields of South Carolina and Georgia, there to remain until September or October, when they leave for their winter home south of the Amazon.

The Sora Rails, beloved of sportsmen and epicures, are also attracted to the marshes by the wild rice. On their arrival in early August they are indeed “as thin as a rail,” but an abundance of food soon rounds their bodies into comparative plumpness. The 1st of September is a black day in their calendar. Then they are outlawed, a price is set on their bodies, and at high tide each day during this sad month one sees numerous puffs of smoke arise from the tall grasses and dull reports come booming over the marsh with fateful frequency.