Chapter X: Part 10

Ten to one you know him, if at all, only as a voice, a tricksy bushwhacker of song, an elusive mystery of the thicket; or you have unconsciously ascribed his productions to half a dozen mythical birds at once. But look more closely. It is well worth the quest to be able to resolve this genius of roguery. Be assured he knows you well enough by sight, for he does not poke and pry and spy for nothing, in the intervals of song. He has still the proverbial curiosity of woman. Seat yourself in the thicket, and when you hear the mellow, saucy _Kook_, with its whistled vowel, bounded by consonants barely thought of, imitate it. You will have the bird up in arms at once. _Kwook_, returns the bird, starting toward you. Repeat it, and you have won. The bird scents a rival and he will leave no stem unclasped but he finds him. As the bird alternately squints and stares from the brush, note the rich warbler olive of his upperparts, the gorgeous yellow of the throat and breast, the white brow-stripe and the malar dash, offset by black and darker olive. It is a warbler in color-pattern, a Yellow-throat done larger, but waggish, furtive, impudent, and resourceful beyond any other of his kind.

The full song of the Chat is usually delivered from some elevation, a solitary tree rearing itself above dense cover. The music almost defies analysis, for it is full of surprises, vocal somersaults, and whimsy turns. Its cadence is ragtime, and its richest phrases are punctuated by flippant jests and droll parentheses. Even in the tree-top the singer clings closely to the protecting greenery, whence he pitches headlong into the thicket at the slightest intimation of approach.

The love song of the Chat, the so-called “dropping song,” is one of the choicest of avian comedies, for it is acted as well as sung. The performer flings himself into mid-air, flutters upward for an instant with head upraised and legs abjectly dangling, then slowly sinks on hovering wing, with tail swinging up and down like a mad pump-handle. Punch, as Cupid, smitten with the mortal sickness. And all this while the zany pours out a flood of tumultuous and heart-rending song. He manages to recover as he nears the brush, and his fiancée evidently approves of this sort of buffoonery.

The Chat is a skilled mimic. I have traced the notes of such diverse species as Bullock Oriole, Slender-billed Nuthatch, and Magpie to his door. Once, down on the Rio Grande, we rapped on a vine-covered cottonwood stump to dislodge a Flicker that had been shrieking _Klyak_ at us for some minutes past, and we flushed a snickering Chat.

The Western Chat, like the eastern bird, has small taste for architecture. A careless mass of dead leaves and coarse grasses is assembled in a bush at a height of three or four feet, and a lining of finer grasses, when present at all, is so distinct as to permit of removal without injury to the bulk of the structure. From three to five eggs are laid and so jealously guarded that the birds are said to destroy the eggs once visited by man. So cautious are the Chats that even after the young have hatched out, they take care not to be seen in the vicinity of their nest, but a low, anxious _chuck_ sometimes escapes from the harassed mother in a neighboring thicket.

Chats will follow suitable cover into most desolate places. On the other hand they do not discriminate against civilization _per se_, and the Chats of Cannon Hill, in Spokane, are as grateful to the good sense of its citizens as are the Catbirds and two score other resident species of songsters. They are, however, birds of the sunshine belt, and West-side records are very few.

No. 84.
PILEOLATED WARBLER.

A. O. U. No. 685 a. Wilsonia pusilla pileolata (Pallas).

Description.—_Adult male_: Above bright olive green; forehead, sides
of head, and underparts bright greenish yellow, tinged on sides with
olive-green; crown, or “cap,” lustrous black; wings and tail fuscous
and olive-edged without peculiar marks; bill dark above, light below;
feet light brown. _Adult female_: Similar, but the black cap wanting,
or, if present, less distinct. _Immature_: Like female without cap.
Length about 4.75; wing 2.20 (56); tail 1.97 (50); bill .38 (8.5);
tarsus .75 (18.8).

Recognition Marks.—Least,—pygmy size; black cap of male distinctive;
recognizable in any plumage by small size and greenish yellow
coloration. Brighter than _W. pusilla_; not so bright as _W. p.
chryseola_.

Nesting.—As next.

General Range.—Western North America, breeding thruout the Rocky
Mountain district, north to Alaska, west to Cascade Range in Oregon
and Washington and to Vancouver Island; during migrations over the
entire western United States, and east irregularly to the Mississippi;
south in winter over Mexico and Central America.

Range in Washington.—Not common resident and abundant migrant on
East-side; migrant only west of Cascades.

Migrations.—_Spring_: May 1-15.

Authorities.—Dawson, Auk XIV., 1897, 180. (T). (C&S). D¹. Kb. D². J.
E.

Specimens.—B. BN. E. P.

The pervading yellowness of this little bush-ranger will hardly serve to distinguish it from the equally common Lutescent Warbler, unless you are able to catch sight of its tiny silken crown-patch of black, the “little cap” which gives the bird its Latin-sounding name. With _chryseola_ it is the smallest of our warblers, and it is one of the commonest, during migrations, on the East-side. The thickets have taken on full leaf before the bird arrives from the South, along about the 10th of May, and the northward march is often prolonged till the first of June. So expert is the little Black-cap at threading briary tangles, that a meeting here depends upon the bird’s caprice rather than the astuteness of the observer. Willow trees are favorite stations during the spring movement, and these because of their scantier foliage afford the best opportunities for study.

My impression is that the Pileolated Warbler must breed sparingly in eastern Washington. There is, however, only one summer record to substantiate this belief,—a bird seen in the valley of the Stehekin, June 22nd, 1906. The only song I have heard differed from the abruptly terminated crescendo of _W. p. chryseola_, being rather a well modulated swell, _chip chip! chip!! chip!!! chip!!! chip!! chip! chip_.

No. 85.
GOLDEN WARBLER.

A. O. U. No. 685 b. Wilsonia pusilla chryseola Ridgw.

Synonym.—Golden Pileolated Warbler (properly so-called, but the bird,
because of its local abundance deserves the shorter name. Moreover,
altho “golden” is the commonest color among the Warblers, the name has
not been pre-empted).

Description.—“Similar to _W. p. pileolata_, but slightly smaller and
much more brightly colored; olive-green of upperparts much more
yellowish, almost olive-yellow in extreme examples; yellow of forehead
and superciliary region (especially the former) inclining more or less
to orange; yellow of underparts purer, more intense” (Ridgway). Length
of adult males (skins) 4.35 (110); wing 2.18 (55.4); tail 1.93 (49.1);
bill .33 (8.3); tarsus .72 (18.2).

Recognition Marks.—As in preceding; brighter.

Nesting.—_Nest_: a shapely and thick-walled mass of dead leaves,
grasses and vegetable fibers, lined with coiled grasses or hair, on
the ground or concealed at moderate heights in weeds, bushes,
evergreen saplings, etc. _Eggs_: 3-5, white or creamy white, speckled
and spotted with reddish brown markings, well distributed or gathered
about larger end. Av. size .59 × .48 (15 × 12.2). _Season_: May 15-30;
one brood.

General Range.—Pacific Coast district from southern California to
southern British Columbia.

Range in Washington.—Summer resident in western Washington; common in
well-watered forests at lower levels and in thickets from sea-level to
higher mountain valleys.

Migrations.—_Spring_: Arrives Puget Sound April 25-May 5. _Fall_:
Blaine, Sept. 15.

Authorities.—_Myiodioctes pusillus_ Bonap., Baird, Rep. Pac. R. R.
Surv. IX. pt. II., 1858, p. 294 (part). C&S. L¹. Ra. B. E.

Specimens.—U. of W. E.

This dainty little Warbler is one of the most characteristic and well distributed birds of western Washington. Its summer range embraces all shady and moist woods having varied undergrowth; and it is at home alike on the sides of the western Cascades, in the swampy bottoms tributary to Puget Sound, or under the dense spruce forests of the Pacific slope. It is certainly one of the most abundant birds in the last-named section, and its golden flittings not only dominate the fern levels but extend upward into the mossy arms of the evergreens. A brilliant dress does not appear to endanger the life of this little despot, for he is quite too insignificant for notice among the Knights of Claw and Jaw, and so he flashes in and out, scolds, sings, and meditates, by turns, without molestation. Nor is there any lack of interest in the life of this golden midget. Have you never wished that you were tiny—oh, _teeny_—with beady black eyes, that you might explore the mysteries of a moss forest? that elderberries might look to you like great blue pippins? and madrone berries like luscious fiery pumpkins? that you might pluck a thousand sapid meats at first hand where now you know only a few “staples,” disguised by the meretricious arts of cookery? That you might—Ah, here I have you!—that you might pantingly pursue a golden maiden down dim forest aisles, over plunging billows of spiræa blossoms, past corridors of giant sword-fern, into—Oh, where is that maddening creature! She’s given me the slip again! Never mind; I’ll pause and sing: _oooooééééééééooooo_.

Truth to tell, the song just recorded is one of the rarest, a perfectly modulated swell of sharp staccato notes of little resonance but greater power and intensity. The ordinary song is a series of monosyllables uttered with increasing emphasis, _chip chip_ CHIP CHIP _CHIP CHIP_. The singer is very much in earnest, and compels attention in spite of his utter lack of musical ability. Late in August, the 26th it was, I provoked a Black-cap at Blaine by screeping, until he sang merely to relieve his feelings, _chip_ CHIP _CHIP_ CHIP _chip chip chip_, the precise type of the Pileolated Warbler, _W. p. pileolata_ proper. The only other variant in my collection is _tsew tsew tsew tsee tsee tsee, whhhackity_,—the last note, somewhat whimsically represented here, being an intense guttural trill very difficult to characterize.

Messrs. Rathbun and Renick, of Seattle, have made a special study of the nesting habits of this dainty wood nymph, and they report a marked partiality in its nesting for the vicinity of woodland paths, log-roads, and the smaller openings in the logged-off sections. The favorite host is a cedar sapling, a mere baby tree with stem only half an inch or so in diameter. Of nine nests examined only one, in a bracken, was more than two feet above the ground, and none were less than ten inches. The nest is quite a bulky affair, yet compact centrally, composed externally of copious dried leaves and twigs; internally of fine grasses and interwoven rootlets. The birds quit the nest unobserved and the finding of one of their domiciles is a matter of hard work.

No. 86.
AMERICAN REDSTART.

A. O. U. No. 687. Setophaga ruticilla (Linn.).

Description.—_Adult male_: Head and neck all around and breast shining
black; remaining upperparts dull black with glossy patches, changing
to brownish black or fuscous on wings; a large salmon-colored patch at
base of secondaries; a smaller, nearly concealed patch of same color
at base of primaries; the outer web of the outer primary salmon nearly
thruout its length; the tail feathers, except the two middle pairs,
salmon-colored on both webs for the basal two-thirds; two large
patches of reddish salmon on the sides of the breast; the lining of
the wings and the sides extensively tinged with the same color,
occasionally a few touches across the chest below the black; lower
breast, belly, and crissum, white; bill black; feet dark brown; black
in variable amounts on sides of breast between the orange red spots;
lower tail-coverts sometimes broadly tipped with blackish. _Adult
female_: Above, brownish ash with an ochraceous or olive tinge on
back; salmon parts of male replaced by yellow (Naples yellow), and the
reddish salmon of sides by chrome yellow; remaining underparts dull
whitish, sometimes buffy across chest. _Immature male_: Similar to
adult female, but duller the first year; the second year mottled with
black; does not attain full plumage until third season. Length
5.00-5.75 (127-146.1); av. of five males: wing 2.59 (65.8); tail 2.17
(55.1); bill .36 (9.1); tarsus .70 (18).

Recognition Marks.—Medium Warbler size; black with salmon-red and
salmon patches of male; similar pattern and duller colors of female
and young; tail usually half open and prominently displayed, whether
in sport or in ordinary flight.

Nesting.—_Nest_, in the fork of a sapling from five to fifteen feet
up, of hemp and other vegetable fibers, fine bark, and grasses, lined
with fine grasses, plant-down and horse-hair. _Eggs_, 4 or 5,
greenish, bluish, or grayish-white, dotted and spotted, chiefly about
larger end, with cinnamon-rufous or olive-brown. Av. size .68 × .51
(17.3 × 13). _Season_: June; one brood.

General Range.—Temperate North America in general, regularly north to
Nova Scotia, the Mackenzie River (Fort Simpson), etc., west to
southern Alaska, British Columbia, eastern Washington, Utah, etc.,
casual in eastern Oregon, northern California, and in the southeastern
states; breeding from the middle portion of the United States
northward; south in winter thruout West Indies, Mexico and Central
America to northern South America.

Range in Washington.—Rare but regular summer resident in northern
portion of State east of Cascades (Methow Valley, Grand Coulee, etc.),
casual(?) in the Blue Mountains.

Authorities.—[J. K. Lord in “Nat. in Vancouver Id. and B. C.”, 1866,
p. 162 (Colville Valley).] Brewer, Bull. Nutt. Orn. Club. V., 1880, 50
(Ft. Walla Walla). D¹. Ss¹. J.

Specimens.—C. P¹.

The “start” of Redstart is from the old Anglo-Saxon _steort_, a tail; hence, Redstart means Redtail; but the name would hardly have been applied to the American bird had it not been for a chance resemblance which it bears to the structurally different Redstart of Europe, _Ruticilla phoenicurus_. In our bird the red of the tail is not so noticeable as is the tail itself, which is handled very much as a coquette handles a fan, being opened or shut, or shaken haughtily, to express the owner’s varied emotions.

The Redstart is the presiding genius of woodland and grove. He is a bit of a tyrant among the birds, and among his own kind is exceedingly sensitive upon the subject of metes and bounds. As for the insect world he rules it with a rod of iron. See him as he moves about thru a file of slender poplars. He flits restlessly from branch to branch, now peering up at the under surface of a leaf, now darting into the air to secure a heedless midge, and closing upon it with an emphatic snap, now spreading the tail in pardonable vanity or from sheer exuberance of spirits; but ever and anon pausing just long enough to squeeze out a half-scolding song. The paler-colored female, contrary to the usual wont, is not less active nor less noticeable than the male, except as she is restrained for a season by the duties of incubation. She is even believed to sing a little on her own account, not because her mate does not sing enough for two, but because she—well, for the same reason that a woman whistles,—and good luck to her!

During the mating season great rivalries spring up, and males will chase each other about in most bewildering mazes, like a pair of great fire-flies, and with no better weapons—fighting fire with fire. When the nesting site is chosen the male is very jealous of intruders, and bustles up in a threatening fashion, which quite overawes most birds of guileless intent.

Redstart’s song is sometimes little better than an emphatescent squeak. At other times his emotion fades after the utterance of two or three notes, and the last one dies out. A more pretentious effort is represented by Mr. Chapman as “_Ching, ching, chee; ser-wee swee, swee-e-e-e_.” Many variations from these types may be noted, and I once mistook the attempt of a colorless young stripling of one summer for that of a Pileolated Warbler.

Our Redstart shares with the Yellow Warbler alone the distinction of representing among us _in ipsa specie_ the Warbler hosts of the East. Even so, our scanty summer population of Redstarts, confined as it is to the northeastern counties, appears to represent an overflow of the eastern hordes, or, perhaps, the van of occupation, rather than regularly established citizens. I have seen them as far south as Brook Lake, and as far west as Stehekin only; but Mr. Allan Brooks records a specimen from Chilliwhack, in western British Columbia.

_Alaudidæ_—The Larks

No. 87.
ALASKA HORNED LARK.

A. O. U. No. 474 a. Otocoris alpestris arcticola Oberholser.

Synonyms.—Arctic Horned Lark. Pallid Horned Lark. Winter Lark.

[_Description of type form, Otocoris alpestris._—_Adult male in
breeding plumage_: A narrow patch across fore-crown with ends curving
laterally backward and produced into a feather-tuft or “horn,” black;
a broad bar from nostril to eye thence curving downward and expanding
to involve hinder portion of cheeks and auriculars anteriorly, black;
a crescentic patch across upper chest black; forehead and
superciliaries pale yellow (primrose yellow) paling posteriorly;
auriculars yellow continuous with and deepening into straw yellow of
chin, throat and malar region; remaining underparts white, the sides
and flanks dull vinaceous streaked with dusky; upperparts in general
warm grayish brown, the middle of crown, occiput, nape, lesser
wing-coverts and upper tail-coverts vinaceous-cinnamon; back,
scapulars and rump grayish brown, each feather edged with paler and
having dusky center; wings hair-brown with paler edgings, the
outermost primary edged with white; tail chiefly black, the middle
pair of feathers dusky, edged with whitish, the two lateral pairs
edged with white. Bill black lightening below (basally); legs and feet
black; iris dark brown. _Adult female in summer_: Like male but duller
and paler, the black areas reduced in extent and obscured by brownish
or buffy tips; yellow of superciliary stripe, etc., duller and paler;
upperparts more noticeably streaked and with less of vinaceous tint on
hind neck and upper tail-coverts. _Both sexes in fall and winter_ are
somewhat more heavily and more uniformly colored save on black areas
which are overcast by buffy or brownish tips; also forebreast dusky or
obscurely spotted. _Young birds_ are heavily speckled above with
yellowish white on brownish and dusky ground. Length of adult male:
7.00-7.50 (177-190); wing 4.37 (111); tail 2.83 (72); bill .48 (12.2);
tarsus .94 (24). Adult female: 6.75-7.25 (171-184); wing 4.09 (104);
tail 2.48 (63); bill .43 (11.1); tarsus .91 (23.2).]

Description.—_Adults_: Similar to _O. alpestris_ but upperparts paler
and grayer, less warmed by vinaceous; no yellow (or merest tinge on
head and throat)—white instead; size about the same.

Recognition Marks.—Sparrow size; black crescent on upper chest; black
cheek and crown patches; feather-tufts or “horns” directed backward.
To be distinguished from _O. a. merrilli_ and _O. a. strigata_ by
larger size and absence of yellow.

Nesting.—Not certainly known to breed in Washington but possibly does
so above timber-line. _Nest_: a cup-shaped depression in the surface
of the ground, plentifully lined with fine grasses, moss, grouse
feathers, etc. _Eggs_: 3 or 4, greenish- or grayish-white, profusely
and minutely dotted with olive-buff, greenish-brown and lavender. Av.
size .95 × .66 (27 × 16.7).

General Range.—“Breeding in Alaska (except Pacific coast district) and
valley of the Upper Yukon River, Northwest Territory; migrating
southward to Oregon, Utah, Montana, etc.” (Ridgway).

Range in Washington.—Common winter resident and migrant east of the
Cascades. Birds breeding on the higher mountains are doubtfully
referable to this form.

Authorities.—_O. a. leucolæma_ (Coues), Dawson, Auk, XIV. 1897, 176.
D². J.

Specimens.—Prov.

The Horned Lark bears the reputation of being the most plastic of American species—the Song Sparrow (_Melospiza melodia_) being a close second in this respect. A monograph by Mr. H. C. Oberholser[29] enumerates twenty-three forms, of which seventeen are described as North American, and four Mexican, beside one from Colombia (_O. a. peregrina_) and another (_O. a. flava_) from Eurasia. Of this number the majority occur west of the Mississippi River, where climatic conditions are more sharply differentiated, and where, especially in the Southwest, the situation allows of that permanent residence which is conducive to the development of subspecific forms.

The situation in Washington appears to be somewhat as follows: _O. a. strigata_, strongly marked, but showing relationship to _merrilli_, and likeness to _insularis_, of the Santa Barbara Islands, summers in western Washington in open prairies, and at low altitudes only. In winter it retires southward, or straggles irregularly eastward[30]. _O. a. merrilli_ is related to strigata on the one hand, and to _leucolæma_ (the Desert Horned Lark) on the other, but it curiously reproduces the appearance of _praticola_ (being indistinguishable in certain plumages); and also bears close resemblance to _giraudi_, a non-migrant form of the Gulf shore of Texas. It summers thruout eastern Washington, and even (doubtfully) occupies the western coast of British Columbia. An isolated colony occurring on Mount Baker, above timber-line, is referred by Oberholser to this form, but I should prefer to call it an intergrade with _arcticola_. In winter _merrilli_ retires completely from its Washington range, and its place is taken by _arcticola_, sweeping down from the highlands of British Columbia and Alaska in considerable numbers.

It is not at all difficult for one who is accustomed to the appearance of _merrilli_ to recognize these newcomers when they appear, late in October, for they are decidedly larger, more lightly colored, and show no slightest trace of yellow. They are much given to wandering about in straggling flocks, and the mild cries which they scatter freely have a subdued and plaintive tone, borrowed, no doubt, from the chastened character of the season. A sitting flock will sometimes allow a very close approach, but when they do so they “freeze,” so perfectly that the eye can scarcely find them. The only thing to do under such circumstances is to freeze also, until the birds begin to limber up and steal cautiously away, taking advantage, for concealment, of every tuft of grass or depression of the ground, and giving occasional admonitory _yips_ to their fellows.

No. 88.
COLUMBIAN HORNED LARK.

A. O. U. No. 474 i. Otocoris alpestris merrilli Dwight.

Synonyms.—Dusky Horned Lark. Merril’s Horned Lark.

Description.—Similar to _O. a. strigata_ but somewhat larger and
decidedly grayer above, streaks narrower and dusky rather than black;
underparts not suffused with yellowish and yellow of head, especially
superciliary, not so strong as in _O. a. strigata_. Length (skins)
6.25 (159); wing 4.05 (103); tail 2.32 (59); bill .43 (11); tarsus .85
(21.6).

Recognition Marks.—As in preceding; smaller, darker and more yellow
than _O. a. arcticola_; larger, grayer and less yellow than _O. a.
strigata_.

Nesting.—_Nest_ and _eggs_ as in preceding. Av. size of eggs .93 × .61
(23.6 × 15.5). _Season_: April-July; two or three broods.

General Range.—Breeding in northwestern interior district of the
United States from northwestern Nevada and northeastern California
north thru Oregon and Washington well up into British Columbia, east
to Idaho; south in winter (at least) to central California.

Range in Washington.—Common summer resident and migrant east of the
Cascades. Breeding birds of the high Cascades may possibly be of this
form.

Authorities.—_Eremophila alpestris_, Brewster, B. N. O. C. VII. Oct.
1892, p. 227. D¹. Sr. D². Ss¹. Ss². J. E.

Specimens.—P¹. Prov. E(?).

A modest bird is the Columbian Horned Lark, for his home is on the ground, and he hugs its tiny shelters when disturbed, as tho quite assured that its brownness matches the tint of his back. If attentively pursued, he patters away half trustfully, or if he takes to wing, he does so with a deprecating cry of apology, as if the fault were his instead of yours. If his business keeps him in the same field, he will reappear presently, picking from the ground with affected nonchalance at a rod’s remove, or else pausing to face you frankly with those interesting feather-tufts of inquiry, supported by black moustachios and jetty gorget on a ground of palest primrose.

The unseeing class the Horned Larks among “brown birds” and miss the vaulting spirit beneath the modest mien. Yet our gentle Lark is of noble blood and ancient lineage. The Skylark, of peerless fame, is his own cousin; and, while he cannot hope to vie with the foreign bird in song, the same poet soul is in him. Whether in the pasture, upon the hillside, or in the desert, the coming of spring proclaims him laureate; and the chief vocal interest of nesting-time centers in the song-flight of the male Horned Lark.

The song itself is, perhaps, nothing remarkable, a little ditty or succession of sprightly syllables which have no considerable resonance or modulation, altho they quite defy vocalization; yet such are the circumstances attending its delivery that it is set down by everyone as “pleasing,” while for the initiated it possesses a charm which is quite unique. _Twidge-widge, widgity, widgy-widge_, conveys no idea of the tone-quality, indeed, but may serve to indicate the proportion and tempo of the common song; while _Twidge, widgity, eelooy, eelooy, idgity, eelooy, eew_, may serve the same purpose for the rare ecstasy song. The bird sometimes sings from a fence post, a sage bush, or even from a hummock on the ground, but usually the impulse of song takes him up into the free air. Here at almost any hour of the day he may be seen poising at various heights, like a miniature hawk, and sending down tender words of greeting and cheer to the little wife who broods below.

It is, however, at the sacred hour of sunset that the soul of the heavenly singer takes wing for its ethereal abode. The sun is just sinking; the faithful spouse has settled herself to her gentle task for the night; and the bird-man has lain down in the shadow of the fence to gaze at the sky. The bird gives himself to the buoyant influences of the trembling air and mounts aloft by easy gradations. As he rises he swings round in a wide, loose circle, singing softly the while. At the end of every little height he pauses and hovers and sends down the full voiced song. Up and up he goes, the song becoming tenderer, sweeter, more refined and subtly suggestive of all a bird may seek in the lofty blue. As he fades from the unaided sight I train my glasses on him and still witness the heavenward spirals. I lower the glasses. Ah! I have lost him now! Still there float down to us, the enraptured wife and me, those most ethereal strains, sublimated past all taint of earth, beatific, elysian. Ah! surely, we have lost him! He has gone to join the angels. “Chirriquita, on the nest, we have lost him.” “Never fear,” she answers; “Hark!” Stronger grows the dainty music once again. Stronger! Stronger! Dropping out of the boundless darkening blue, still by easy flights, a song for every step of Jacob’s ladder, our messenger is coming down. But the ladder does not rest on earth. When about two hundred feet high the singer suddenly folds his wings and drops like a plummet to the ground. Within the last dozen feet he checks himself and lights gracefully near his nest. The bird-man steals softly away to dream of love and God, and to waken on the morrow of earth, refreshed.

The Columbian Horned Lark enjoys a wide distribution thruout eastern Washington during the nesting season, the only requirement of the bird being open country. The convenience of water is no object, and the bird favors the undifferentiated wastes of sage, rather than the cultivated fields. Elevated situations are especially attractive, and thousands of these Horned Larks nest along barren, wind-swept ridges and on the smaller mountains where no other species can be found.

No. 89.
PACIFIC HORNED LARK.

A. O. U. No. 474 g. Otocoris alpestris strigata Henshaw.

Synonym.—Streaked Horned Lark.

Description.—Similar to _O. alpestris_ but darker and much smaller,
above streaked broadly with black and tinged with buffy; nape, rump
and bend of wing more rufescent; underparts usually more or less
suffused with yellowish. Adult female more strongly and handsomely
marked than that of any other form. Length of adult male (skins) 5.98
(52); wing 3.85 (98); tail 2.59 (65.8); bill .44 (11.3); tarsus .82
(20.8).

Recognition Marks.—As in preceding; smaller, darker and more yellow
than other local forms.

Nesting.—_Nest_ and _eggs_ as in preceding. _Season_: second week in
May, second week in June; two broods.

General Range.—Breeding in Pacific Coast district of Oregon,
Washington and British Columbia; “migrating to eastern Oregon and
Washington, and northern California (Red Bluff; San Francisco)”
(Ridgway).

Range in Washington.—Found breeding only on prairies west of Cascades,
therefore chiefly confined to Pierce, Thurston and Chehalis Counties;
said to winter on East-side.

Migrations.—_Spring_: last week in February; Tacoma, February 25,
1905, February 10, 1908.

Authorities.—_Eremophila cornuta_ Boie, Baird, Rep. Pac. R. R. Surv.,
IX. 1858, 404, 405. (T). C&S. L¹. Ra. B.

Specimens.—(U. of W.) Prov. B.

The prairies of Pierce, Thurston, and Chehalis Counties, so often referred to in these pages, are of comparatively recent formation—mere gravel beds leveled off by the action of a retreating sea—and so thoroly washed thru portions of their area as to be capable of supporting little else than a carpet of moss. The wanton recklessness of the Pacific Horned Larks, which inhabit these open stretches, is really but one degree removed from the modesty of their more fortunate kinfolk across the Cascades. It is modesty without opportunity; and that easily becomes shamelessness. For here the ground is of an uncompromising green, and the “cover,” afforded by slight depressions in the moss, is usually unworthy of the name.

The perfection of green barrenness was attained in the golf-links of South Tacoma, before they were surrendered to the demands of the growing city. Yet this was the very place where the Horned Larks appeared to the best advantage. Returning, as they did, about the 25th of February, in good seasons, they disported themselves like mad Pixies for a month or so, engaging in amorous pursuit and frequent song-flight; until in some way, late in April, domestic order began to emerge from the chaos of rival claims, and little homes dotted the prairie, where belted squires and red-jacketed ladies pursued the twinkling gutta-percha. The conflict of interests, avian and human, was sometimes disastrous to the birds. Mr. Bowles records three instances in which Larks were killed by flying golf balls; and another gentleman, himself a devotee of the game, tells me he once saw a bird struck dead in mid-air.

By the spring of 1906 matters had gone from bad to worse. The golf-links became a sort of common, despairingly resorted to by a few enthusiasts and a motley laity. The northwest portion of the section was staked out into lots, and the whole area was criss-crossed by roads and paths, whereby workmen, school-boys and delivery wagons hastened to and fro. Then it became the special pasture of a band of fifty cows, the lean kine of Pharaoh’s dream multiplied by seven; and to the terrors of two hundred heedless hoofs was later added a flock of sheep, being fattened for sacrifice at a neighboring slaughter-house. This common was also a favorite romping ground for children, while dogs simply went crazy upon it. I saw one rabid beast in a delirium of unfettered bliss do off about six miles in twice as many minutes, with a Horned Lark, flying low, as the invariable object of his chase. When to such conditions as these was added the scantiness of cover, one marveled indeed that the daffy Horned Lark still persisted upon his ancient heritage.

Yet on the 11th of April (the earliest record by far), in the barest of it, we marked a deep rounded cavity which Mr. Bowles declared belonged to the Streaked Horned Lark. Returning on the 27th, we found that the hole in the ground had become a bump instead. The bird, grown callous amid the impending evils, or else frankly intending to warn off trespassers, had filled the cavity full to overflowing, and had erected upon its site a monumental pile visible at a hundred yards. So zealous had the bird’s efforts been that the crest of the nest stuck up two and a half inches above the close-cropped landscape, and the bottom of the nest was above the ground. This creation was quite ten inches across, while it included upon its skirts bits of sod, cow-chips and pebbles,—a motley array, possibly designed to distract attention from the dun-colored eggs which the nest contained. The most lavish display of this sort of brumagem marked a runway of approach, offset by a corresponding depression upon the other side. The nest was composed chiefly of dried grasses and weed-stalks with soft dead leaves, and was lined, not very carefully, with grass, dried leaves, and a single white chicken-feather.[31]

Once the attention of the oölogist was directed to this structure, it rose from the plain like a pyramid of Cheops before his strained anxieties. It was torture to have to leave it for half an hour. How could that school-boy pass at twenty yards and not see it! Then, when I returned to reconnoiter, the dear cattle were just being turned loose for the morning, and they, forsooth, must straggle past it. At the end of another hour, unable longer to endure the suspense, I returned to perform the last offices. The band of sheep was out then, and they were drifting so perilously close, that I ran the last hundred yards to head them off, and none too soon. Yet that precious monument of simplicity held three eggs, unharmed until the advent of the man, who wrought the ruin surely, in the name of—Science(?). Consistency, thou art a jewel found in no egg-collector’s cabinet!

The nest of the Pacific Horned Lark is not often concealed, but usually it does not more than fill the hollow of some cavity, natural or artificial,—a wheel-rut, a footprint of horse or cow, a cavity left by an upturned stone, or, as in one instance, the bottom of an unused golf-hole. The only attempt at concealment noted was where the nest had been placed under the fold of a large strip of tar paper, most of which had become tightly plastered to the ground.

In spite of the comparatively mild weather prevailing in April, eggs are not often laid before the second week in May, and a second set is deposited about the second week in June. The number of eggs in a set varies from two to four, three being most commonly found. In color the ground is grayish white, while dots of greenish gray or reddish gray are now gathered in a heavy wreath about the larger end, and now regularly distributed over the entire surface—sometimes so heavily as to obscure the ground. The eggs are often very perceptibly glossed and there is frequently a haunting greenish or yellowish tinge which diffuses itself over the whole—an atmosphere, as the artist would say. Variation in size runs from ovate to elongate oval, and measurements range from .93 × .60 to .81 × .58.

Horned Larks owe their preservation chiefly to the wariness of the female, for she flushes at long distances. Either she will slip off quietly and sneak at thirty yards, or else flush straight at a hundred. When the nest is discovered she is quite as likely to ignore the intruder, and seldom ventures near enough to betray ownership. On the other hand, given patience and a pair of strong binoculars, “tracking” is not a difficult accomplishment.

_Motacillidæ_—The Wagtails and Pipits

No. 90.
AMERICAN PIPIT.

A. O. U. No. 697. Anthus rubescens (Tunstall).

Synonyms.—American Titlark. Brown Lark. Louisiana Pipit.

Description.—_Adult in spring_: Above soft and dark grayish brown with
an olive shade; feathers of crown and back with darker centers; wings
and tail dusky with paler edging, the pale tips of coverts forming two
indistinct bars; outer pair of tail-feathers extensively white; next
pair white-tipped; superciliary line, eye-ring and underparts light
grayish brown or buffy, the latter streaked with dusky except on
middle of throat and lower belly,—heavily on sides of throat and
across breast, narrowly on lower breast and sides. _Winter plumage_:
Above, browner; below, duller buffy; more broadly streaked on breast.
Length 6.00-7.00 (152.4-177.8); wing 3.37 (85.6); tail 2.53 (64.3);
bill .46 (11.7); tarsus .90 (22.9).

Recognition Marks.—Sparrow size; brown above; buffy or brownish with
dusky spots below; best known by _tlip-yip_ notes repeated when rising
from ground or flying overhead.

Nesting.—_Nest_: at high altitudes, a thick-walled structure of
grasses and moss set into deep excavation in sloping hillside or in
cranny of cliff. _Eggs_: 4-6, usually 5, so heavily speckled and
spotted with reddish or dark brown as almost entirely to obscure the
whitish ground color. Often, except upon close examination, the effect
is of a uniform chocolate-colored egg. Av. size .77 × .57 (19.6 ×
14.5). _Season_: June 15-July 25; one brood.

General Range.—North America at large, breeding in the higher parts of
the Rocky and Cascade Mountains and in sub-Arctic regions; wintering
in the Gulf States, Mexico, and Central America. Accidental in Europe.

Range in Washington.—Abundant during migrations; common summer
resident in Cascade Mountains above timber-line; winters sparingly
west of mountains.

Migrations.—Nomadic; retires from mountains early in September; moves
southward across State Oct. 15-Dec. 15; northward April 1-May 15.

Authorities.—? Townsend, Journ. Ac. Nat. Sci., Phila., VIII., 1839,
154 (Columbia River). _Anthus ludovicianus_, Licht. Baird, Rep. Pac.
R. R. Surv. IX. pt. II., 1858, p. 233. T. C&S. L¹. Rh. D¹. Sr. Ra. D².
J. B. E.

Specimens.—U. of W. P¹. Prov. B. E.

The American Pipit does not sustain the habitual dignity of the boreal breed. He is no clown, indeed, like our Chat, nor does he quite belong to the awkward squad with young Blackbirds; a trim form and a natty suit often save him from well merited derision, but all close observers will agree that there is a screw loose in his make-up somewhere. The whole Pipit race seems to be struggling under a strange inhibitory spell, cast upon some ancestor, perhaps, by one knows not what art of nodding heather bells or potency of subtly distilled Arctic moonshine. As the flock comes straggling down from the northland they utter unceasing _yips_ of mild astonishment and self-reproach at their apparent inability to decide what to do next. Their indecision is especially exasperating as one rides along a trail which is closely flanked by a primitive rail fence, as I have often done in Okanogan County. One starts up ahead of you and thinks he will settle on the top rail and watch you go by. As his feet near the rail he decides he won’t, after all, but that he will go a few feet farther before alighting. If he actually does alight he instantly tumbles off with a startled _yip_, as tho the rail were hot and he had burnt his toes. Then he tries a post with no better success, until you get disgusted with such silly vacillation and inane yipping, and clap spurs to your horse, resolved to escape the annoyance of having to follow such dubious fortunes.

In social flight the Pipits straggle out far apart, so as to allow plenty of room for their chronic St. Vitus’s dance to jerk them hither or thither or up or down, without clashing with their fellows. Only a small percentage of those which annually traverse the State fly low enough to be readily seen; but when they do they are jolting along over the landscape and complaining at every other step. The note is best rendered _tlip-yip_, less accurately _pip-it_ (whence of course the name); and a shower of these petulant sounds comes spattering down out of the sky when the birds themselves are nearly or quite invisible.

The fall migrations of this species appear to have a compound character. Birds which make their appearance early in September are likely to quarter themselves in a given locality for several weeks at a time, tho whether these represent the first refugees from the high North, or mark the practical retreat of our own mountaineers, we cannot tell. Late comers pass thru more rapidly, and the main host clears by late October, but stragglers may be found in any open lowland situation until late November. They are especially partial to prairies, close-cropped pastures, the gravelly shores and bars of rivers, lakes and ponds, and the shingle of sea-beaches. At Semiahmoo the great ricks of barnacle-covered piles, which are annually corded on shore at the close of the fishing season, are regarded in the light of a Pipit hotel. The birds not only shelter among the timbers, but, after the fashion of Sandpipers, glean busily from their surfaces where the marine creatures, thru exposure to the air, are dying a fragrant death.

The return movement of spring sets in early, and the main flight is more direct. But here there is suspicion of desultory wintering on the one hand (I have a record of forty birds seen on the Nisqually Flats, Feb. 10, 1906; and Fannin says they sometimes winter on Vancouver Island) and there is always a small percentage of loiterers who linger into May. Spring flocks may be looked for in freshly-plowed fields, where they feed attentively, often in absolute silence, moving about with “graceful, gliding walk, tilting the body and wagging the tail at each step, much in the manner of a _Seiurus_.”

Pipits are boreal breeders; but inasmuch as our own superb Alps claim kinship with the Arctic, there is no more favorable spot to study the nesting of the Pipits than upon the Cascades of northern Washington. At home the Pipit is a very different creature from the straggler of the long trail. On his native heather, surrounded by dwarfed fir trees, melting snow-fields, and splendid vistas of peak and cloud, he knows exactly what he wants and is quite capable of flying in a straight line.

All is bustle and stir along Ptarmigan Ridge,—the transverse rock-rib of Cascade Pass which divides the waters of Stehekin, Chelan, and the Columbia from those of the Cascade, Skagit, and Puget Sound. The season is late, June 23, 1906, and the snows have only just released the ridge at 6000 feet elevation. Slate-colored Sparrows are carolling tenderly from the thickets of stunted fir. Sierra Hermit Thrushes, those minstrels of heaven, flit elusively from clump to clump or pause to rehearse from their depths some spiritual strain. Leucostictes look in upon the scene in passing, but they hasten at a prudent thought to their loftier ramparts. The real busybodies of the place are the Pipits. Females, lisping suspiciously, hurry to and fro, discussing locations, matching straws, playfully rebuking over-bold swains, and hastily gulping insects on the side. The male birds hover about their mates solicitously—never helping, of course—or else sing lustily from prominent knolls and rocks.

The Pipit song in many of its phases is strikingly like that of the Rock Wren (_Salpinctes obsoletus_). It has the same vivacity and ringing quality, tho perhaps less power, and the similarity extends to the very phrasing. An alarm note runs _pichoo pichoo pichoo_, given six or seven times, rapidly and emphatically; while another, _wee iich, wee iich, wee iich_, is rendered, unless my eyes deceive me, with the same springing motion which characterizes the Wren. An ecstacy song of courting time (heard on Mount Rainier) runs _twiss twiss twiss twiss_ (_ad lib._), uttered as rapidly as the syllables may be said. It is delivered as the bird describes great slow circles in mid-air; and when the singer is exhausted by his efforts, he falls like a spent rocket to the ground.

For all this activity, however, the nests are hard to find. Finally, as we keep ascending the ridge, bare save for occasional patches of snow in the hollows, Jack spies an old nest, last year’s of course, in the recess of a soil tussock, completely overarched by earth. The secret is out, and we can search with more intelligence now. Soon I flush a female at her task of incubation. She has been digging out a pocket, or cave, in a moist bank which the snow had set free not above three days before. The earth removed from the interior is piled up for the lower rim, or wall, and a few rootlets, doubtless those secured in the process of excavation, have been culled out and laid horizontally along the edge of the dirt. The hole is about as large as my double fists, and the nest, when completed, evidently cannot be injured by falling snow.

In July of the following year, work was carried on in the Upper Horseshoe Basin, a few miles further north. The song period was evidently past, but a nest of five eggs slightly incubated, was taken from a heather slope on the 20th of the month. The sitting bird flushed from under the beating stick, but only after I had passed.

On the 17th, a venturesome climb over the rock-wall which fronts the glacier of the Upper Basin, had yielded only a last year’s Leucosticte’s nest. As I was nearly down the cliff and breathing easier, a Pipit flew unannounced from a spur of the cliff upon which I was standing to the one beyond. Evidently she had heard the call of her mate, for the instant she lighted upon the cliff he was near her. But budge not a foot would he; whether he was suspicious or only exacting, one could not quite tell. At any rate he kept giving vent to a ringing metallic note of apprehension. The female coaxed with fluttering wings, and moved slowly forward as she did so, finally securing the worm from her reluctant lord, when—whisk! she was back again and out of sight around the cliff on which I stood. I hastened forward to the furthest outstanding point which gave a partial view of the wall’s face. No bird was in sight. Then I tossed pebbles against the cliff-side, and from beneath the second summons fluttered the frightened Pipit. Five beautiful eggs, of a warm weathered oak, rather than “mahogany” shade, lay in a niche of rock. A tussock of grass clung just below, and a dwarf shrub afforded a touch of drapery above; while from the outstretched hand a flint-flake might have fallen clean of the wall to the ice, a hundred feet below. The male bird continued his outcries from the distant cliff, but the female at no time reappeared.

With the advance of summer, the Pipits lead their broods about the disrobed peaks, even to the very summits, as do the noble Leucostictes. Knowing this, we may readily excuse any little eccentricities which appear in our friends during the duller seasons. The Pipit has redeemed himself.

_Turdidæ_—The Thrushes

No. 91.
TOWNSEND’S SOLITAIRE.

A. O. U. No. 754. Myadestes townsendi (Aud.).

Synonyms.—Townsend’s Flycatching Thrush. Townsend’s Thrush. Townsend’s
Flycatcher.

Description.—_Adults_: General color smoky gray, lighter below,
bleaching on throat, lower belly and under tail-coverts; a prominent
white orbital ring; wings and tail dusky; wing quills crossed by
extensive tawny area originating at base of innermost secondary and
passing obliquely backward—this appears in the closed wing as a spot
at the base of the exposed primaries but does not reach nearer the
edge of the wing than the fifth or sixth primary; another obscure
tawny or whitish patch formed by subterminal edging on outer webs of
seventh and eighth (sometimes ninth) primaries; greater coverts and
tertials tipped with white of varying prominence; a blotch of white on
each side of tail involving distal third of half of outermost rectrix,
tip of second and sometimes tip of third. Bill and feet black; irides
brown. _Young_ birds are heavily spotted with buff above and below
(showing thereby Turdine affinities),—above, each feather has a single
large spot (rhomboidal in some, heart-shaped in others) of buff,
centrally, and is edged with blackish, thus producing a scaled
appearance; below, the ground color is a pale buff or buffy gray with
blackish edgings to feathers. Length about 8.00 (203.2); wing 4.60
(117); tail 4.05 (103); bill .49 (12.4); tarsus .79 (20).

Recognition Marks.—Chewink size; brownish gray coloration with spots
of white (or pale tawny) on tail and wings. No black, as compared with
a Shrike.

Nesting.—_Nest_: in hollow under bank, cranny or rock wall or in
upturned roots of tree, of sticks, coarse weeds and trash, lined with
rootlets. _Eggs_: 4, grayish white spotted with pale brown, chiefly
about larger end. Av. size, .96 × .70 (24.4 × 17.8). _Season_: May or
June; one brood.

General Range.—Western North America, breeding chiefly in mountainous
districts, from northwestern Mexico to Alaska and Yukon Territory,
wintering irregularly from British Columbia (Sumas) southward,
straggling into Mississippi Valley during migrations.

Range in Washington.—Not uncommon spring and fall migrant thruout the
State, summer resident in the mountains to the limit of trees and
elsewhere irregularly to sea level; partially resident in winter west
of the Cascade Mountains.

Authorities.—? Ptiliogonys townsendi, Townsend, Narrative, 1839, p.
338. Myiadestes townsendii Baird, Rep. Pac. R. R. Surv. IX. 1858, 321.
T. C&S. D¹. Ra. J. B. E.

Specimens.—U. of W. P¹. Prov. B. BN. E.

“Of this singular bird I know nothing but that it was shot by my friend, Captain W. Brotchie, of the Honorable Hudson’s Bay Company, in a pine forest near Fort George, (Astoria). It was the only specimen seen.” In these words J. K. Townsend, the pioneer ornithologist of the Pacific Northwest, records[32] the taking of the first example of this species known to science.

The bird thus presented as a conjectural native of Washington, has long been a puzzle to naturalists. It has been called Flycatcher, Thrush, and a combination of the two; but the name Solitaire seems to express both our noncommittal attitude toward the subject, and the demure independence with which the bird itself proceeds to mind its own affairs. Barring the matter of structure, which the scientists have now pretty well thrashed out, the bird is everything by turns. He is Flycatcher in that he delights to sit quietly on exposed limbs and watch for passing insects. These he meets in mid-air and bags with an emphatic snap of the mandibles. He is a Shrike in appearance and manner, when he takes up a station on a fence-post and studies the ground intently. When its prey is sighted at distances varying from ten to thirty feet, it dives directly to the spot, lights, snatches, and swallows, in an instant; or, if the catch is unmanageable, it returns to its post to thrash and kill and swallow at leisure. During this pouncing foray, the display of white in the Solitaire’s tail reminds one of the Lark Sparrow. Like the silly Cedar-bird, the Solitaire gorges itself on fruit and berries in season. Like a Thrush, when the mood is on, the Solitaire skulks in the thickets or woodsy depths, and flies at the suggestion of approach. Upon alighting it stands quietly, in expectation that the eye of the beholder will thus lose sight of its ghostly tints among the interlacing shadows.

And so one might go on comparing indefinitely, but the bird is entitled to shine in its own light. The Solitaire is _sui generis_—no doubt of that. As soon as we establish for it a certain line of conduct, the bird does something else. We banish it to the mountains for the nesting season—a pair nests in a railroad cut near Renton, altitude 200 feet. We describe to our friends the beauty of its song—they go to its sanctuaries and the bird is silent. A bird of such dainty mould should winter in the South. It does,—at times. It also winters at Sumas on our northern border. This poet of the solitudes, he should avoid the haunts of men. He does, usually. But another time he may be seen hopping from bush to log in a suburban swamp, or moping under the edge of a new sidewalk. Indeed, I once saw a Solitaire flutter up from under a passenger coach, as it lay in station. He had happened to spy some bread crumbs and there was nothing to hinder save the conductor’s brisk “all aboard.” Surely such a bundle of contradictions you never did see—and all belied by an expression of lamb-like artlessness and _dolce far niente_, which would do credit to a rag-doll.

All observers testify to the vocal powers of the Solitaire, and some are most extravagant in the bird’s praises. My own notes are very meager. A song heard on Church Mountain, in Whatcom County, May 12, 1905, is characterized as “a dulcet strain of varied notes. It reminds one strongly of the Sage Thrasher, but it is somewhat less impetuous.” In view of this meagerness, I venture to quote at length two older accounts, now hidden away in volumes not easily accessible. Dr. J. S. Newberry first encountered the Solitaire in the cañon of the Mptolyas River, at the base of Mount Jefferson (Or.), and declared its song to be full, rich, and melodious, like that of a _Mimus_[33] “We followed down the river in the bottom of the cañon; all day the gorge was filled with a chorus of sweet sounds from hundreds and thousands of these birds, which from their monotonous color, and their habit of sitting on the branch of a tree projecting into the void above the stream, or hanging from some beetling crag, and flying out in narrow circles after insects precisely in the manner of the Flycatchers I was disposed to associate with them.