Part 15

Each drill is made deep enough to hold about two drops of sap. The upper drills are the only ones to afford sap, which proves that it is certainly the elaborated sap flowing down from the leaves that the birds get.

I had read in works on ornithology that the woodpeckers tapped trees so that the sap would attract insects upon which they could feed. Also that the birds were after the soft bark, or cambium layer, for food.

While the woodpeckers do catch a fly now and then, it is evident, even to a careless observer, that it is the sap that is sought. I have seen them eat small pieces of the cambium layer, but I think they did so because the soft bark was soaked with sweet sap.

The three humming-birds made that little sunny glade in the forest as lively as a Mexican fandango. The two males were jealous of each other, and both birds seemed desperately in love with the demure maid. She attended strictly to business by drinking from the sap-buckets left unguarded by the red squirrel. The male hummers spent most of the time dancing in the air. They took turns in madly pursuing each other; the pursued never turned tail, but flew backward with a swiftness that was marvellous. The buzzing of their wings and their shrill cries furnished the music for the wild dance.

The humming-birds drink from the drills while poised in the air, but often alight and cling to the bark while drinking, the wings closed and silent.

Flies and hornets were in evidence, crawling on the bark of the maples, or flying around the drills. A hornet stung the squirrel on the ear. When I left, the latter was shaking his head and telling the hornets what he thought of them.

When I returned to the cabin, I found a pair of catbirds in trouble. They nested in a dense mass of shrubbery about eighty feet from the dooryard. The male catbird met me some distance from the nest, and by his excited cries I knew that some bird enemy was near at hand. When I came in sight of the nest I discovered the trouble. A black snake was making his way through the bushes toward the nest, and the mother-bird was waging a fierce but fruitless battle.

I killed the snake, which was over five feet in length. The nest contained four eggs. For the time being they were safe.

In due time the nest contained four baby catbirds. One moonlight night, about ten o'clock, there was a great outcry from the old catbirds. I had gone to bed, in my hammock, in the open air, with but a roof over me to keep off the rain, so I could hear the birds and knew that they were fighting to save their little ones. Before I could go to the rescue, one of the catbirds flew to the bushes within three feet of my head, and frantically called to me for help. When I came in sight of the nest I saw a snake drop to the ground. One of the young catbirds was missing. A hurried search beneath the bushes in the dim light was unsuccessful. The snake had silently and swiftly disappeared with his victim.

The old catbirds were pets of mine of several years' standing, and the tragic fate of the baby-bird caused me to try to save the other three. I removed the nest and placed it in a covered box in the cabin. The catbirds followed me to the cabin door, but made no protest. The next morning before sunrise the birds awoke me by their cries. When I was dressing they spent the time flying to and fro, from cabin to hammock, calling to me to hurry up and bring out their babies. Both birds had insects in their bills. I did not take the nest to the old spot, but instead placed it in a clump of bushes near the cabin. When I had secured the nest, the old birds gave the three babies their breakfast. This programme was followed day after day, until the young birds were old enough to fly.

About two hundred visitors one Sunday inspected the nest, and the old birds did not make a protest or show fear. They knew that I would protect their little ones. A clear case of bird intelligence.

Returning from the city, while the catbirds were rearing their young, I heard a great outcry from a number of birds in the cabin dooryard. At first I thought some bird enemy had destroyed the young catbirds, but I found them all right. Just over the wall in the bushes was a nest of the veery. This nest was in ruins. That morning it had contained four newly hatched birds. While I was examining the nest, one of the catbirds flew to a bush near me, and raised an outcry to attract my attention. I spoke to the bird, and immediately it flew to the old wall on the opposite side of the road. I went over, and saw the tail of a black snake hanging from the Hunting wall. I firmly grasped the tail, but could not pull the snake from between the rocks. I thought of a plan to get the reptile out. I pushed the tail into the wall, and when the snake had loosened his hold, by a strong pull I could gain a few inches. Twenty minutes' hard work brought the snake out so I could grasp him by the neck. He coiled around my arm with such power as to stop the circulation. It reminded me of a wire rope tightened by machinery. I unwound the coils and took my captive to a large dry-goods box. I made a cage out of another box by putting wire netting over the top. I placed the box on its side on some stakes, and introduced the snake. He tried every inch of that box and netting for means of escape. Two hours later he settled down for a good long sleep, and when he awoke he appeared contented. I offered him food, but he would not eat. For a month he did not eat or drink. I noticed that his skin was loose in patches.

It was a month before the regular time for the black snake to shed its skin, but it was evident that this interesting event was about to take place. I put some rough rocks in the cage, and the snake pulled himself between them in such a way as to pull off the old skin. Before this, the snake was totally blind. He shed the skin over his eyes, and his sight was restored. Shortly after he had shed his skin he glided to the front of the cage and opened his mouth. I took this to mean food, and gave him a frog, which he swallowed. After this, whenever he was hungry, he would look at me with his mouth open. This snake was six feet and two inches in length, and large accordingly. His muscular power I had tested, and had found it to correspond to his size.

It is singular how many persons there are that think a snake's tongue is a stinger. My snake would run his tongue through the wire mesh, and sometimes I would touch it with a finger. At such times, the most of the visitors present would cry: "Look out, he'll sting you!"

My snake proved to be fond of music. Evenings I would play on the flute, while he would come to the front of his cage and listen. Some tunes would excite him so he would glide about the cage. The Swiss Waltz would always set him a-going. Shrill, discordant notes would send him to the darkest spot in his cage, where he would coil and remain so quiet as to appear lifeless. On the approach of cold weather the snake became torpid, and he was killed.

Some years, snakes, of all kinds indigenous to this climate, are numerous enough to destroy the nests of the small birds. Therefore I kill the snakes that are bird-hunters, because I prefer birds to snakes. I have found that some snakes, that come to my dooryard for my pets, are so crafty as to make it nearly impossible to kill them. A big black snake often came down the hill to the cabin, and when he had reached a boulder he would look around to see if I was there writing. This snake had a saucy, independent way of looking at me, as much as to say, "Are you the hermit?" A movement on my part toward a club sent the snake into the bushes. Throughout one season I tried my best to kill that black snake without success. The next year he did not appear. Very few snakes came out of winter quarters that spring.

Another black snake had determined to swallow a pet toad. The toad was a monster, and had escaped several times, but his hind legs were badly scarred. The toad would come to me for protection. Usually he would hop on to my feet when pursued. The snake was too crafty, to come near enough for me to use my snake-club. I was telling some visitors from the city about the toad and snake, when one young lady expressed a strong desire to see a live snake. While we were talking, I heard the toad cry out, and I knew that the snake was after him. I told my visitors to keep quiet and they would see the toad come to me for protection. The young lady that wanted to see a live snake gathered up her skirts and fled down the old highway. The toad came in sight, dragging the snake, which was clinging to a hind leg. When the snake saw us, he dropped his hold but did not retreat. The toad hopped on to my feet, nearly exhausted. The snake must have been made bold by hunger, for he made a rush for the toad. My snake-club was near at hand, and he was soon killed. The young lady that fled would not return until fully convinced that the snake was dead. She did not see the snake when he was alive, for she fled when I said one was coming.

A garter-snake made a home beneath my cabin. He was too small to injure birds, so I did not disturb him. He became very tame during the summer. His hole was under the door of my cabin. I could sit in the doorway, and when he was passing in or out, he would stop for me to rub his head. The second year he had increased in size. There was a chestnut-sided warbler's nest near the cabin, containing young birds. I heard cries of distress from the old birds, and when I investigated, found the garter-snake trying to get at the nest. I struck him with a small stick, and he hid in the weeds. That blow severed his friendship for me. If he returned to the cabin and saw me in the doorway, he would retreat until the coast was clear. Twice more I caught him at the birds' nest. He escaped each time. He must have come to the conclusion that I was protecting the birds for my own eating, for he left them after that. The next year he ate a pet frog and robbed several bird's nests. He had moved to an old stone wall, and did most of his hunting by night. He tried to loot a catbird's nest, but the birds gave the alarm, and the moon helped me to find the marauder. One blow and it was all over. It would have been pleasant to study this snake, but I could not allow my pet birds to be so cruelly persecuted.

XII.

THE INSTINCT OF THE COWBIRD

The books on ornithology tell us that the cowbird (Molothrus ater) is a common summer resident of New England, without regard to locality. However true this may be as to other parts, it is a fact that the bird was unknown to me in Penobscot County, Maine.

Cowbirds are summer residents of Cape Ann, and I have studied their habits for years. I commenced by requiring answers to the following questions:

Why do birds, when victimized, rear the young cowbird?

Why does the young cowbird desert its foster parents to associate with its own kind?

Why do young cowbirds lay eggs in other birds' nests, instead of building nests for themselves?

How did the cowbird acquire this unnatural habit?

Writers on the subject usually answer the first question by the term "stupidity," and the other three by the word "instinct."

In all my life I have never found the birds stupid. They are as intelligent as to the requirements of bird life as man is as to the requirements of human life.