Part 7

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, 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.