A Feathered River Across the Sky

by Joel Greenberg

  (There is probably a lesson in this for all of us.)

  This record is unassailable and is the strongest claimant as the last wild bird killed. Thus ends, to the best that can be ascertained, the existence of the passenger pigeon as a wild bird. But a hundred years ago, a few people were not yet ready to concede the fact. Schorger describes what follows this way: “No better example of eternal hope, so characteristic of man, can be found than the search for a living wild passenger pigeon long after it had ceased to exist.”44

  THE FINAL SEARCH

  Sight records and even some claims of dead passenger pigeons continued for years. None other than Theodore Roosevelt felt certain that he had observed a flock of seven on May 18, 1907, at his presidential retreat, Pine Knot in Albemarle County, Virginia. Roosevelt obviously knew the status of the species and quickly penned letters to two confidants. The most detailed exposition of his experience went to C. Hart Merriam: “I saw them flying to and fro a couple of times and then they all lit in a tall dead pine by an old field. There were doves in the field for me to compare them with, and I do not see how I could have been mistaken.” The other letter went to his close friend John Burroughs, the famed nature essayist. To Roosevelt’s delight, Burroughs responded that pigeons had also been seen in New York and on occasion in sizable numbers.45

  Burroughs had independently concluded that “a large flock of wild pigeons still at times frequents this part of [New York], and perhaps breeds somewhere in the wilds of Sullivan and Ulster County.” His view drew the attention of William Mershon, who was preparing his book at the time. Mershon wrote him and asked if the observers had possibly mistaken plover, teal, or other migratory birds for pigeons as he himself had done. Burroughs replied that his view was based on the accounts of several people he knew well, one of whom said the birds spread across the sky at a length of a half mile. Still, Burroughs was enough of a scientist to harbor at least a trace of doubt for he commented that with all the pigeons in upstate New York “they ought to be heard from elsewhere—from the south or southwest in winter.” He further acknowledged that their presence raised another question as well: “If these flocks were pigeons, where have they been hiding all these years?” Where, indeed?46

  Another person who still held out hope was the eminent scientist Clifton Fremont Hodge of Clark University in Worcester, Massachusetts. Called “a born naturalist,” Hodge possessed strong interests in a variety of fields including forestry, ornithology, physiology, and environmental education, long before it was called that. Hodge was tending his garden one fall morning in 1905 when a flock of about thirty long-tailed birds flew over. They were so close, he harbored no doubt as to their identity. “The passenger pigeons are not extinct,” he yelled as he waved his hat excitedly. Like others before him, he read meaning into the presence of the bird, although the message he divined was unique: by granting him this privilege, the fates wanted him to prove to the ornithological community that the species still survived outside a cage.47

  During the American Ornithologists’ Union meeting in the fall of 1909, Hodge presented a paper he called “The Present Status of the Passenger Pigeon Problem.” It was a call for action. He asked the assembled bird scientists, “Do you think that a scientifically adequate search has been made for Ectopistes migratorius?” Nobody answered strongly that such an effort had been mounted, and some, including the influential C. Hart Merriam, replied firmly that it had not. Hodge went on to decry the offers made by various parties that they would pay for any recently killed pigeons. Putting a bounty on whatever few remaining birds there might be would surely minimize their chances of survival. Rather, he thought, the rewards should be for active nests that could be verified by competent ornithologists.48

  After the session, Hodge had a conversation with Colonel Anthony Kuser, one of those who had offered money for a dead bird, in his case $100. Hodge was conciliatory, saying he did not expect everyone to concur with him, but to his surprise, Kuser agreed completely with his position. When Hodge then suggested the reward should go for information about live birds, Kuser not only obliged but also raised the ante to $300. Ultimately, the joint announcement stipulated these conditions: “Three hundred dollars for first information of a nesting pair of wild Passenger Pigeons undisturbed. Before this award will be paid, such information, exclusive and confidential, must be furnished as will enable a committee of expert ornithologists to visit the nest and confirm the finding. If the nest and parent birds are found undisturbed, the award will be promptly paid.49

  Other affluent fans of the passenger pigeon soon followed Kuser’s lead: William Mershon for the first nest or nesting colony in Michigan, $100; Professor C. O. Whitman and Ruthven Deane for first nest in Illinois, $100 ($50 each); John Childs for a nest anywhere in North America, $700; A. B. Kinney for first nest in Massachusetts, $100; Edward Avis for first nest in Connecticut (will confirm at his own expense), $100; John Thayer for first nest in any state not yet spoken for up to five, $100 per state; and Allen Miller for first nest in Worcester County, Massachusetts, $25. The contributors and amounts varied a bit over time. These offers and specially prepared colored plates of passenger pigeons were distributed widely in the hunting journals and local newspapers.50

  People realized that locating living birds would be but the first step. Hodge proposed that if the search proved successful, there should be established a Passenger Pigeon Restoration Club, which would reach out to public and private agencies to provide protective laws and “warden service.” The goal would be to ensure security for the birds over their entire range: “The organization of the people of a continent around such an interest is in itself an inspiring thing.”51

  Reports poured in. Nests also found their way to Hodge, happily mostly of mourning doves, but at least one of either a sharp-shinned hawk or merlin. He lamented that the press was not more careful in emphasizing that payment would only be made for active passenger pigeon nests. George Harrington of Waltham, Massachusetts, did not even wait for official confirmation before going directly to the newspapers with his discovery of a pair of birds in an unnamed town. They were cooing away in a large oak. While everything that Hodge published referred to a maximum award of around $1,000, Harrington was expecting closer to $10,000. It seems he had the idea that both the federal and state governments had chipped in thousands of dollars as well. At the time of the article, Harrington was waiting to hear back from Hodge, so he could show him the pigeons and collect his small fortune. Hodge’s failure to even mention the incident suggests that the passenger pigeon claim was no more real than the expected cash windfall.52

  But enough sight records, albeit every one lacking details, came in to warrant continuing the search one more year. During 1911, four reports came in that led to field investigations, but no surprises. A number of eyewitness accounts did seem highly credible. In two of these, birds were shot, but in each instance the evidence wound up in a pot. Even the feathers vanished. Hodge called this “the nightmare of the whole situation”: whether they were correct in their identifications or not, people continued to kill birds they thought were passenger pigeons.53

  Then in October Hodge received a letter from one Dwight Cushman of Hebron, Maine: “One day recently, while out hunting, I shot a bird and had it mounted by one of our leading taxidermists. It proved to be a Passenger Pigeon (Ectopistes migratorius). I think it is a young bird as it has dark spots on the back. Please reply giving me some more information concerning this bird.” Hodge, probably quivering with anticipation, promptly mailed off a package that included “leaflets with photographs and underscored boldly in red ink the comparative lengths of the Pigeon and Mourning Dove. I also enclosed … colored plates of the two birds.” In his cover letter, Hodge told Cushman to compare the enclosed with his bird. If he still thought the original identification was correct, Cushman should send the bird express and he would be compensated for the expense. “An early express brought a little box,” inside of which was indeed a bird. Hodge se
nt the mourning dove right back to Maine, charging Cushman the eighty-seven cents for the return express. This incident illustrates so well why an acceptable late record of a wild passenger pigeon had to be either of a specimen examined by people competent to identify it or live birds seen well by multiple ornithologists.54

  Hodge did not give up easily and the offer was extended one more year. By now the numbers of contributors had increased. Henry Shoemaker said he would give $200 to the first nest in Pennsylvania and would throw in $25 more if it was protected. A nest in New York would bring $100 courtesy of John Burroughs. But Hodge made it clear that this was it: if no confirmed passenger pigeon nestings materialized by October 31, 1912, all the offers would be rescinded. Halloween came and went. There were no treats. The scientific community had given it its best shot, but they were too late by years.55

  All the passenger pigeons in the world that still drew breath resided in a cage in the Cincinnati Zoo. And her name was Martha.

  Chapter 9

  Martha and Her Kin: The Captive Flocks

  By 1900, there were three captive flocks of breeding passenger pigeons. Martha was the progeny of one, born in a second, and spent most of her life in the third. The entities that maintained them, an interested amateur, a distinguished academic, and the nation’s second-oldest zoo, were very different, as were the reasons they acquired and kept the birds in the first place. If events had proceeded differently, Martha might not have been the last of her species. But what-if runs through this entire saga and can never be answered.

  Before considering the three well-documented captive flocks, I wish to linger on the little-known account by Henry Shoemaker that hints of other possible captive passenger pigeons. The story goes that one Jack Kreamer of Montoursville, Pennsylvania, kept ten stool pigeons in his cabin on Loyalsock Creek. By New Year’s Eve 1908, only three remained, and a cat did away with one of them sometime during that long winter’s night: “The old man, despairing of the return of the ‘vanished millions,’ hastily killed the two survivors and had them mounted.”1

  Shoemaker, writing this around 1919, goes on to reference persistent rumors that similarly kept pigeons might still survive in a few isolated homesteads secreted in the mountains of Pennsylvania. He had the resources and influence to track them down, so the ensuing silence resolves the matter. But I find it a haunting notion nonetheless that the last passenger pigeon might not have died in a modern zoo but a ramshackle barn where a faltering old man tried to preserve a living connection to his youth.

  MILWAUKEE

  One of the captive passenger pigeon flocks was created and maintained through the efforts of David Whittaker. As a young man, he and his wife, Maria, searched for gold in California and then the Yukon. After more years prospecting in Ontario and the upper Midwest, they eventually settled in Milwaukee, on a bluff above the Milwaukee River, where they established a swimming pool and a school. Many of the city’s leading citizens, both men and women, became students. His most accomplished swimmer, though, proved to be his son George, who set world-record times for long and middle distances at the 1893 Columbian Exposition in Chicago.2

  Wandering around the wilderness looking for minerals enabled him to develop and strengthen his fascination with nature. He evidently spent a lot of time looking up as well as toward the ground. Once he settled down, he sated this long-standing avian interest by raising birds. In what I have read about him, only two species are mentioned. He kept a flock of about twenty “bluebill wild ducks” (probably greater or lesser scaups). They would spend the day in the riverine marshland by his home doing what fertile ducks do, then return in the evening for food. In most years, ten to twelve young would be added to the group. What he did with the extra ducks or when the river froze is not recorded.3

  Far more has been written about Whittaker’s small aviary that housed his passenger pigeons. Wire netting composed two sides of it, while the top and the two remaining sides were of glass. Branches and poles provided perches, and a couple of shelves supported the nests that would eventually be built. The first occupants arrived in the fall of 1888, when Whittaker obtained two pairs of passenger pigeons captured in Shawano County, Wisconsin, by a “young Indian.” One pair was of mature birds, while the other was of birds less than a year old. Unfortunately, the two older pigeons did not last long: “One … scalped itself by flying against the wire netting and died,” while the other escaped.4

  Whittaker proved himself a patient and skilled aviculturist. After several fruitless years, his flock of two began to grow, eventually reaching fifteen. The slow, tedious process required close observation and care. Impediments to success included the destruction of nests and eggs by the female and other members of the flock, as well as the killing of squabs by older males. During his viewing of Whittaker’s facility in March 1896, Ruthven Deane witnessed the early stages of nesting:

  When the pigeons show signs of nesting, small twigs are thrown on to the bottom of the enclosure … There were three pairs actively engaged. The females remained on the shelf, and at a given signal which they only uttered for this purpose, the males would select a twig or straw, and in one instance a feather and fly up to the nest, drop it and return to the ground, while the females placed the building material in position and then called for more.”5

  When the adults fed young, Whittaker showed great astuteness by augmenting the regular diet of grain with worms and insects. These highprotein foods were released into a box of soil: “At times the earth in the enclosure is moistened with water and a handful of worms thrown in, which soon find their way under the surface. The Pigeons are so fond of these tidbits, they will often pick and scratch holes in their search, large enough to almost hide themselves.”6

  Even after lives of confinement, the birds remained timid and wary. To observe them closely, Deane found, one had to approach the cage slowly and deliberately, lest they scatter in a panic. When storms approached, traits born of their genetic inheritance manifested themselves in yet another way: “The old birds will arrange themselves side by side on the perch, draw the head and neck down into the feathers and sit motionless for a time, then gradually resume an upright position, spread the tail, stretch each wing in turn, and then, as at a given signal, they spring from the perch and bring up against the wire netting with their feet as though anxious to fly before the disturbing elements.”7

  CHICAGO

  Now the scene shifts a hundred miles south, to the University of Chicago. When John D. Rockefeller helped underwrite the founding of the school in 1890, he in essence gave the first president, William Rainy Harper, a blank checkbook with which to build the institution. Harper stocked his new university in the same way George Steinbrenner replenished the New York Yankees year after year: he bought key players from other teams. One of Harper’s successes was enticing biologist Charles Otis Whitman to leave Clark University and come to Chicago. Whitman was one of those rare academicians who published relatively little but became highly coveted through his activities and his students.

  Charles Otis Whitman at his Chicago aviary in 1900 with his various pigeons and a northern flicker. Wikimedia Commons

  Born in Maine in 1842, Whitman seemed to lack interest in most everything as a young child, for one researcher says of him, “There is no hint from any of those I interviewed that young Whitman had any desire to play, draw, paint, climb mountains, travel, or build boat, engine, or carriage.” He was rescued at the age of twelve from a life of apathy by developing a strong interest in birds, a sure sign of exceptionalism. When his pet blue jay died, he stuffed it. Additional collecting of specimens ornithological and mineralogical transformed the family home into a museum of sorts. A cousin recalled that Whitman once endured pelting rain for hours as he stood in a pond with his gun awaiting the return of a bird he wanted for his collection. While he was at Bowdoin College, in Brunswick, Maine, all anyone recalled of him was that he devoted his spare time exclusively to the collecting of birds.8

  Whitman
received a doctorate from the University of Leipzig and taught at the Imperial University of Tokyo. He then spent some time at the Zoological Station in Naples, Italy, before returning to the United States, where he directed a laboratory in Milwaukee. Whitman resumed his teaching career at Harvard, Clark, and Chicago. His research delved into such fields as animal behavior, embryology, evolution, and anatomy. But though he was an energetic scientist, he withheld publishing much of his work because he felt it would be premature unless he nailed down every detail and examined every reference. In the meantime, Whitman founded and edited the Journal of Morphology. He also helped establish and was the first director of the Marine Biological Laboratory at Woods Hole in Massachusetts, an effort to create a community of scientists who could study living organisms in an unfettered setting. Or, as one of its major funders described it, Woods Hole would have “many elements of a biology club.”9

  One of Whitman’s true loves was pigeons. As a youth, instead of playing or building carriages, he used to watch “them by the hour.” As a mature scientist, he amassed a large collection that eventually reached 550 live birds of around thirty species. These were housed in small cotes situated around his house in Hyde Park, a few blocks from the university. At least a few were always kept inside his home, serenading the human occupants with constant cooing. His goal was to study behavior, evolution, and genetics, and by working with such a wide variety of subjects he hoped to buttress his support of orthogenesis, a view that holds evolution to be “a directed and progressive process” determined by the characteristics of the species rather than the more random effects imposed by environment. This position had few adherents while he was alive, and during the years it took for his works to be published posthumously, its vitality had ebbed to the point where his findings were largely ignored.10