Part 6

But why was not the grass-finch, his relative of the fields, in just as good voice when he arrived on the thirty-first? The last two springs this bird had to be on his singing-grounds several days before he recovered his full powers of voice. On the twenty-ninth the phœbe came with his burden of sweet song, and the first of April brought Bewick’s wren—sweet-voiced Arion of the suburbs—and the chipping sparrow, whose slender peal of song rang through my study window. Here my record stops for the present year; but by reference to my last year’s notes (1891) it appears that Bewick’s wren did not then arrive until April tenth, and chippy not until April twelfth. The difference in the seasons is doubtless the primary cause of this divergence in the time of arrival. April brings many other winged pilgrims,—the white-throated and white-crowned sparrows, the thrushes, the orioles, the tanagers, the cat-birds, the swallows and swifts, and some of the hardier warblers, while the great army of warblers delay their coming till the first and second weeks in May. And all the while we are having bird concerts, cantatas, oratorios, and opera festivals, mingled with some tragedy and a great deal of comedy, and there are love songs and cradle songs, matins and vespers, and twitterings expressive of every shade and variety of feeling.

I yield to the temptation to add a brief article entitled “Watching the Parade,” which was published in a New England journal in the summer of 1893, and contains a record of some observations made during the previous spring. By comparison with the preceding part of this chapter, it will indicate the versatile character of bird study in the same season of different years. I shall give it almost verbatim as first published, hoping the rather “free and easy” style will be generously overlooked by critical readers.

Every spring and autumn for many years I have been watching the parade; not a parade of soldiers, or of civic orders, or even of a menagerie; but one of far more interest to the naturalist,—the procession of the army in feathers. A wonderful cortége it is, this army in bright array; and every time you witness it, you add something new to your knowledge of bird life. The last spring has been no exception, although, when the pageant began, I wondered if I should see any new birds or hear any new songs, and even felt a little doubtful about it.

But quite early a new bird was added to my list. It was the blue-winged warbler, which carries about a scientific name big enough to break its dainty back. Just think of calling a tiny bird Helminthophila pinus! But happily it does not know its own name, and, like some of my readers, would not be able to pronounce it if it did, and therefore no serious harm is done. This bird may be known by the bright olive-green of its back, the pale blue of its wings, the pure yellow of its under parts, and the narrow black line running back through its eye. It seemed to be quite wary, yet I got near enough to see it catch insects on the wing like a wood-pewee, as well as pick them from the leaves of the trees.

The bird student must sometimes let problems go unsolved. For nearly, perhaps quite a week, three or four large, heavy-beaked birds flitted about in several tall tree-tops of the woods, but were so far up that, try as I would, I could not identify them even with my opera-glass. In my small collection of mounted birds there is a female evening grossbeak; and the tree-top flitters looked more like it than any other bird of my acquaintance. If they were evening grossbeaks, it was a rare find; for these birds are almost unknown in this part of the country, only a few having ever been discovered in this State. Their usual locale is thought to be west of Lake Superior. I was sorely tempted to use a gun, but decided that it was just as well not to know some things as to massacre an innocent bird.

However, other finds were more satisfactory. Strolling through the woods one day, I caught the notes of a bird song that did not sound familiar. Surely it was a vireo’s quaint, continuous lay; but which of the vireos could it be? It was different from any vireo minstrelsy I had ever heard. Peering about in the bushes for the author of those elusive notes, I at length espied a little bird form, and the next moment my glass revealed the blue-headed or solitary vireo. It was the first time I had ever heard this little vocalist sing in the spring, although we have met—he and I—on familiar terms every season for many years. Here is a query: Why was blue-head silent other years, and so tuneful that spring? For he was often heard after that day.

The song was varied and lively, sometimes running high in the scale, and had not that absent-minded air which marks the roundelay of the warbling vireo. It is much more intense and expressive, and some notes are quite like certain runs of the brown thrasher’s song. The bird did two other things that were a surprise: he chattered and scolded much like the ruby-crowned kinglet. Then he caught a miller, and, as it was too large to be swallowed whole, placed it under his claws precisely like a chickadee or blue jay, and pulled it to pieces. This was a new trick to me, nor have I ever read, in any of the bird manuals, of his taking his dinner in this way.

The red-eyed vireo also chanted a little roundel that spring, as he pursued his journey northward, his song being slower in movement and less expressive and varied than that of his cousin just referred to.

Indeed, the procession seemed to be especially musical during that spring. One day, in the last week in April, a new style of music rang out at the border of the woods, and I fairly trembled lest the jolly soloist should scud away before I could identify him; but he had no intention of making his escape, and giving the credit of his vocal efforts to somebody else in the bird world. At length I got my glass upon him. He proved to be the purple finch,—rosy little Mozart that he was! For years he has passed through these woods with the vernal procession, but this was the first time he had ever been obliging enough to sing in my hearing. And what a rolling, rollicking little song it was, just as full of good cheer as bird song could be! He continued his vocal rehearsal for many minutes on that day, but afterward he and his fellows were as mute as the inmates of a deaf and dumb asylum. A purple finch once sang here in the fall; but the music was quite harsh and squeaking, very different from his springtime melody.

One of the most beautiful birds that have a part in the vernal parade is the rose-breasted grossbeak,—a bird that you will recognize at once by his white-and-black coat and the rosy shield he so bravely bears on his bosom. In his summer home, farther north, I have often heard his vivacious music (this was in northern Indiana); but until the past spring he has always been silent as he passed through this neighborhood, save that he would sometimes utter his sharp, metallic Chip. However, on the fourteenth of May two of these grossbeaks sang a most vigorous duet in the grove near my house; and I wish you could have heard it, for it would have made you almost leap for joy, it was so jolly and rollicksome. At first you may be disposed to think the grossbeak’s song much like the robin’s, but you will soon find that it is finer in several respects, the tones being clearer and fuller, the utterance more rapid and varied, and the whole song much more spirited; and that is saying a good deal, considering Cock Robin’s cheery carols. No one should fail to hear this rosy-breasted minstrel, whatever else he may miss. It will make him feel that life is worth living; that if God made this bird so happy, he must intend that his rational creatures, who are of more value than a bird, should also be cheerful.

Never were the birds so gentle and confiding as they were during that spring. A female redstart took up her residence in my yard for fully a week, flitting about in the trees and grape-arbor, seeking for nits and worms; and you are to remember that I live in town (though in the outskirts), with many houses and people about, and an electric car whirling along the street every few minutes. A dainty bay-breasted warbler—little witch!—kept the redstart company, letting me stand beneath the trees on whose lower branches she tilted, and watch her agile movements; yet one of my bird books declares that the bay-breasted warblers remain in the highest tree-tops of the woods! Both these birds occasionally uttered a trill.

The goldfinches, too, were very familiar. They came with the procession as far north as my neighborhood, but stopped here for the summer, instead of continuing their pilgrimage. Some of their brothers and sisters remained with me all winter. Within a few feet of my rear door stands a small apple-tree, in whose branches these feathered gold-flakes flashed about, and sang their childlike ditties, and one little madam fluttered in the leafy crotches of the twigs, fitting her body into them as if trying to see if they would make good nesting-sites; the while Sir Goldfinch sang and sang at the top of his voice. Several white-crowned sparrows also came to eat seeds thrown out into the back yard. These handsome sparrows were not shy, but perched on the fence or the trees, and trilled their sweet refrains.

VI. WINGED VOYAGERS.

The subject of bird migration is one of absorbing interest, presenting many a perplexing problem to the student who cares to go into the philosophy of things. Why do the birds make these wonderful semi-annual pilgrimages, and whence came the original impulse, are questions often asked. With my limited opportunities for observation I cannot hope to shed much, if any, new light on the subject; yet it seems to me that some persons are disposed to invest it with more of an air of mystery than is really necessary. There are several patent, if not wholly satisfactory, reasons that may be assigned for the migrating impulse.

As this is not a scientific treatise, the writer will not be over-methodical in presenting these reasons, but will mention them in the order in which they occur to him. If we keep in mind the invariable succession of the seasons, and that this annual rotation has continued for ages, and if we also remember that all animals are dowered by their Creator with as much intelligence as is necessary for their well-being, much of the difficulty attaching to this subject will at once disappear. Birds, like their human kinsmen, learn by experience and tutelage, and are also gifted with a sure instinct that amounts in many cases almost to reason. Take, for instance, this one fact. As the sun creeps northward in the spring, it pours a more and more intense heat upon the northern portions of the tropical and sub-tropical regions. The heat would soon become intolerable to certain birds, which have doubtless tried the experiment of spending the summer in equatorial countries; or if individuals now living have not tried it, perhaps some of their more or less remote ancestors have. That birds do make experiments is proved by the fact that several pets of mine will carefully “sample” a new kind of food offered them, and if they do not find it to their taste, will let it severely alone; nor is it any the less evident that young birds receive instruction from their elders. Thus the necessity of leaving the torrid regions as summer approaches may have been impressed on the migrating species from time immemorial.

Again, as spring advances, insect and vegetable life is revived in regions farther north, and this certainly must act as a magnet upon the birds, drawing them from point to point as the supply of food becomes scarce in the more southern localities. Then, let us suppose for a moment that all the birds did remain in the south through the summer; there would sooner or later be a bird famine in the land, for the supply of seeds and insects would soon be exhausted. Our feathered folk are simply obliged, on account of the exigencies of food, to scatter themselves over a larger extent of country. They solve the problem of food supply and demand by these annual pilgrimages to the boreal lands of plenty.

To go a little more to the root of the matter, we may easily imagine how the migrating spirit got its first impulse and gradually became evolved into a habit of something like scientific precision. If the first birds lived in tropical climates, as was probably the case, some of them, as the food supply became exhausted, would be crowded northward, or would go of their own accord, and wherever they went they would find well-filled natural larders. Having once discovered that spring replenished the north with food, they would soon learn the desirability of making periodical journeys to that part of the globe. With this constant quest for food must also be coupled the instinctive desire of most birds for seclusion during the season of reproduction,—an instinct that would naturally drive them northward into the less thickly tenanted districts. But it may be objected that many species make long aerial voyages, passing over vast tracts of country to reach their chosen summer habitats in various parts of the north; and it is well known that the same individuals will return again and again, on the recurrence of spring, to the same locality. How are these facts to be accounted for?

If we accept the glacial theory—a hypothesis pretty well established now among scientific men—we may readily conceive that, as the sun melted the ice at a greater distance in both directions from the equator, the habitable area of the earth’s surface would gradually become enlarged. For the sake of vividness let us fancy ourselves living at that period of the world’s history. Let us select a point north of the equator where a given pair of birds can live in summer. They find plenty of food there, and are comparatively undisturbed by other birds, and they therefore become attached to the place, most feathered folk having a strong “homing instinct.” When winter comes, they and their progeny are forced to retire to the south; but they do not forget their pleasant summer haunt, their Mecca in the north, and therefore, at the approach of the following spring, they obey the home impulse and hie by easy stages to the beloved spot. Some of their number doubtless find it possible from time to time to push farther northward, and thus other breeding-haunts are selected. As the glacial accumulations melt away, the whole temperate region and a large part of the frigid zone become habitable. All this takes place by a very gradual process, requiring thousands of years, thus giving ample time for heredity to infuse the migratory habit into the nature of the birds. Every new generation would learn the route and other needful details from their predecessors, and thus the process would go on in an unending circuit year by year.

After the foregoing was written, my attention was called to the following quotation from Dr. J. A. Allen’s valuable paper on the “Origin of the Instinct of Migration in Birds.” The extract is taken from an article by Frank M. Chapman, published in “The Auk” for January, 1894: “Nothing is doubtless more thoroughly established than that a warm temperate or sub-tropical climate prevailed down to the close of the Tertiary epoch, nearly to the Northern Pole, and that climate was previously everywhere so far equable that the necessity for migration can hardly be supposed to have existed. With the later refrigeration of the northern regions, bird life must have been crowded thence toward the tropics, and the struggle for life thereby greatly intensified. The less yielding forms may have become extinct; those less sensitive to climatic change would seek to extend the boundaries of their range by a slight removal northward during the milder intervals of summer, only, however, to be forced back again by the recurrence of winter. Such migration must have been at first ‘incipient and gradual,’ extending and strengthening as the cold wave receded, and opened up a wider area within which existence in summer became possible. What was at first a forced migration would become habitual, and through the heredity of habit give rise to that wonderful faculty which we term the instinct of migration.” The reader’s attention is also directed to Mr. Chapman’s own article in the number of “The Auk” indicated.

It may be asked why some species remain in torrid and temperate climates, while others wing their way to the far north, even beyond the boundary of the Arctic Circle. My answer is, There is some Power that has wisely arranged all these matters, either by gradual development or by an original creative fiat. Every species is made to fit with nice precision into its peculiar niche in the creation. Perhaps Bryant suggests the true explanation in his poem entitled “To a Waterfowl”:—

“There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, The desert and illimitable air, Lone wandering, but not lost.”

This may seem like begging the question; yet, to my mind, it is impossible to develop a philosophy of the universe without assuming an original creative Intelligence. True, the laws of evolution will account for many of the details, and birds, like men, are empowered in a large measure to work out their own destiny; but somewhere there must be a Power that has infused into Nature all these wonderful potentialities of development. Involution must precede evolution.

But this is speculation. Account for them as we may, the facts are evident. Within the circle of my own observation there is abundant proof of this varied but wise adaptation in Nature. There, for example, is the tiny golden-crested kinglet, which remains here all winter, no matter how severe the weather, and seems to be the embodiment of good cheer; whereas the brown thrasher, a bird many times as large, would be likely to perish in the first snow-squall. Then, when spring arrives, Master Kinglet hies to the north for the breeding-season, while Monsieur Thrasher comes up from the south and becomes my all-summer intimate.

Another matter of intense interest concerning bird migration is that the migrants which winter farthest north are, as a rule, the first to arrive in the spring at their summer homes or vernal feeding-grounds. For instance, in the latter part of March or the beginning of April, while the thrashers, cat-birds, and others which winter in our Southern States, are arriving in New England, New York, Pennsylvania, and Ohio, the warbler army, which spends the winter in the West Indies, Yucatan, and Central America, is just crossing over from those countries to the southern borders of the United States.

When autumn comes, experience has taught the migrants that their only safety lies in making their way to the south before cold weather sets in; for many of them certainly do start on this voyage long before winter drives them from their northern haunts. In my opinion, they are gifted with sufficient reason—call it instinct, if you like—to do this, and I do not think they are moved by an uncontrollable impulse which acts upon them as if they were mere automata.

Portions of the migrating army often overlap. For example, the juncos and tree-sparrows are winter residents in my neighborhood, but very frequently they remain here a month or more after the earliest arrivals from the south. Presently, however, they grow nervous, flit about uneasily, trill little snatches of song, inure themselves to flight by longer or shorter excursions about the country, and then join the northward procession en route for their breeding-haunts in British America. With regret I bid them adieu, but find compensation in the knowledge that their places will be supplied by a brilliant company of summer residents.

One of the strangest features of migration is the fact that a bird will sometimes make the voyage from north to south, and vice versa—or a part of the voyage—alone, at least as far as companionship with individuals of its own kind is concerned. Whether this is done advertently or inadvertently I am unable to say, but the fact cannot be disputed. In the spring of 1892, as noted in another chapter, a hooded warbler was flitting about a gravel bank in a wooded hollow, and although I scoured the country for miles around day after day, I never met another bird of this species. The little Apollo in feathers was so gentle and familiar that surely his mates would not have escaped my notice had there been any in the neighborhood. Why he preferred to travel alone, or in company with other species rather than his own kin, might be an interesting problem in avian psychology. A little farther down the glen a single mourning warbler was also seen at almost the same date. His companions had probably wished him bon voyage, and left him to strike out in an independent course through the trackless ocean of air.

That the army of migrants travel mostly by night is a well-known fact that can be verified by any one who will stand out-of-doors and listen to their chirping overhead. They seem to move in loose flocks, for there are intervals of complete silence, followed by a promiscuous chirping from many throats. Nor are these nocturnal calls all uttered by a single species, but usually a number of species seem to be travelling in company. One might say, therefore, that the feathered army moves in squads. As they travel in the dark, very little can be said about their flight; but every student has found species of birds in an early morning ramble which he could not find anywhere on the previous day, proving that they must have arrived in the night. Here is a single excerpt—many might be given—from my note-book: “On the third of March, 1894, I took a long stroll into the country, remaining in the fields until dusk; not a single meadow-lark was to be seen or heard. At daybreak next morning, however, the shrill whistle of I know not how many larks rose like musical incense from the fields and commons in the rear of my house. Depend upon it, had these lavish minstrels been in the neighborhood during the previous afternoon, they would not have escaped my attention, for they could not have kept their music in their larynxes, not they! There is a cog in Nature’s machinery lost if the meadow-larks are silent for a half day in the spring.”