A Feathered River Across the Sky

by Joel Greenberg

  On March 4, 1896, Whitman added one more species to his collection when he bought three passenger pigeons from David Whittaker. By the following year, he would have in his possession all fifteen of the Milwaukee birds. Although nine chicks hatched that breeding season, only four survived. With nineteen birds, Whitman returned seven to Whittaker. Over the next few years, the overall number of pigeons in Chicago increased so that by the beginning of 1902 there were sixteen, evenly divided between males and females. In addition, there were two hybrid birds, offspring of a male passenger pigeon and a female ringed dove. Both males, they proved to be sterile. Whitman noted the hardiness of the passenger pigeons: they fared well in their outdoor enclosures and resisted disease much more effectively than many of their neighbors. He called the species “my special pets.”11

  One of Whitman’s experiments sought to determine how much of a bird’s behavior was dictated by unvarying instinct versus its capacity to adjust to changed circumstances. He compared three species and found each represented a different “grade.” When he approached a passenger pigeon nest to take the egg, the hen moved away but soon returned. She looked into the nest and reentered as if the egg were still present. But after a short while, she sensed that something was missing. She then abandoned the nest without making any attempt to recover the egg placed close by, as if she had never laid it in the first place. This behavior varied only slightly from bird to bird. The ringed turtle dove, in contrast, was so tame she suffered the indignity of having her eggs removed without moving. After they were gone, she stirred a bit and, realizing something was amiss, lowered her head to get a better view. Looking up, she spied the eggs and either sat there awhile mulling over the turn of events before concluding she had done all she could or trying to retrieve one egg. If the retrieval proved successful, she once again resumed incubating without concern for the other egg. But there was far more variation in how the individual turtle doves responded than among the passenger pigeons. The third species tested was the rock pigeon, what Whitman called the dovecot pigeon. The hens of this species will seek to regain the two eggs and, if they fail, will abandon the nest after greater hesitation than either of their cousins.12

  Although Whitman might have had a special place in his heart for the passenger pigeons, his conclusion from this experiment would certainly not sit well with the subjects had they been human: “The passenger pigeon’s instinct is wound up to a high point of uniformity and promptness, and their conduct is almost too blindly regular to be credited with even that stupidity which implies a grain of intelligence.” Whitman, in making this statement, seems to have overlooked two relevant facts. First, the ringed turtle dove is a species of human creation, being a mix of many strains bred over generations. Similarly, most varieties of rock pigeon are also the product of human agency. Second, since passenger pigeons nested in trees, a missing egg would have been irretrievable. But that was not necessarily true for rock pigeons, which nested on ledges: the egg may merely have rolled a short distance away.13

  This flock of passenger pigeons would be the only one ever studied by scientists. Most of the attention devoted to the birds came from Wallace Craig, an associate whose principal interest was in animal behavior and whose observations of the pigeon are incorporated into earlier chapters of this book. Without his efforts, the gaps in what is known about this species would be even larger. Craig seemed to have genuine affection for the bird and regrets that it was not more widely kept: “As an aviary bird, it would have been a favorite, on account of its beauty and its marked individuality … And for such study at close range the Passenger Pigeon was, and would ever have continued to be, a most interesting subject, for its strongly marked character appeared in every minute detail of its habits, postures, gestures, and voice … Such individuality is in great part impossible to describe, though it is felt unmistakably by everyone who has lived with the birds.”14

  As director of the Marine Biological Laboratory, Whitman considered it essential that he spend his summers at Woods Hole. So twice a summer, he carefully packed his hundreds of pigeons on either a “poorly ventilated baggage car” or “two freight cars” for the three-day trip between Illinois and Massachusetts. The irony is difficult to miss: these passenger pigeons never felt the exhilaration or weariness of extended flight for the only migrations they ever experienced were via train, a conveyance that played an important role in transporting the species to oblivion.15

  From the high number of sixteen at the beginning of 1902, the flock began an irreversible downward spiral. The fate of Whitman’s collection might be seen as a microcosm of the entire species. Eggs were laid, a few hatched, but not one young bird survived. Over the same time, the adults began to disappear: two escaped (they flew the coop at Woods Hole), two fell victim to tuberculosis, and others succumbed to causes unknown. One hen was given to the Cincinnati Zoo in 1902. Five years later, tuberculosis claimed the last of Whitman’s birds, a pair of females.16

  Although Whitman expressed his desire to have perpetuated the passenger pigeons under his care, conservation seemed of little interest to him. In this, he was typical of the majority of academics and indeed his countrymen. Referring to passenger pigeons, the late historian Philip Pauly writes, “The fraying of the thread connecting American academic biologists to the continent, its organisms, and their problems can be seen, however, in the poignant life of one of the more unusual summer migrants to Woods Hole.” Several more decades would have to transpire before a formal push began to enlist academicians in promoting the preservation of biodiversity. But among the advocates were a number who had been Whitman’s students.17

  Whitman dutifully answered letters about his passenger pigeons and was generous in providing photographs of them for use in numerous publications. I would say that over 90 percent of all photos of live passenger pigeons were of his birds. But he never published anything on their plight. Even worse, particularly given how conscientious he was in his own research, he failed to read the available literature that would have enlightened him that the pigeons did eat animal matter. The untrained Whittaker knew to feed his breeding birds worms and insects. When Whitman finally made the discovery on his own, he was sorry for not having furnished additional protein to his birds earlier, for they would probably have been healthier and produced more young. Pauly also suggests that some of the trips east might have coincided with the breeding period, thus further inhibiting reproduction.18

  Whitman’s flock was gone except for that one female he had sent to the Cincinnati Zoo.

  CINCINNATI

  In 1872 Cincinnati endured a major infestation of caterpillars that showed a great fondness for tree leaves. Concerned over the future of the city’s arboreal foliage, starch magnate Andrew Erkenbrecher helped found the Society for the Acclimatization of Birds. Under its auspices, a member departed for Europe with instructions to identify and bring back those insectivorous birds that might help stanch the outbreak. The society bought cages to hold the expected arrivals, which numbered about a thousand, consisting of such species as Eurasian starlings, house sparrows, and nightingales. A majority of them were liberated in May of the following year. The nightingales and starlings couldn’t acclimatize and died out. But subsequent releases in various parts of the country ensured that the starlings and house sparrows, at least, continue to this day, carrying on their valiant struggle against insects, seeds, and the nestlings of native birds.19

  Erkenbrecher had a long-standing love for animals and admired the zoos of his native Germany. He had the Acclimatization Society write to Alfred Brehm, former director of the Hamburg zoo, for “information on establishing a zoological garden.” Brehm’s positive reply inspired the creation of the Zoological Society of Cincinnati in July 1873. Under Erkenbrecher’s continued guidance, this new society raised funds, bought property, commissioned plans, erected buildings, moved earth, laid paths, hired staff, and acquired animals.20

  Despite all the challenges inherent in such an ambitious undertak
ing, the Cincinnati Zoological Gardens, now formally named the Cincinnati Zoo & Botanical Garden, commenced serving the public on September 18, 1875, thus becoming the nation’s second-oldest zoo. (Philadelphia’s zoo opened the previous year.) The eclectic assortment of 259 mammals included four species of bears, thirteen species of monkeys, six raccoons, two elks, a wombat, fifty-eight prairie dogs, a blind hyena, and a circus elephant accused of being ill behaved. The zoo also boasted two alligators and fourteen other reptiles. But mostly, the collection consisted of 494 birds, including a talking crow and a flock of peafowl.21

  Passenger pigeons were part of the zoo’s holdings from early on, and their last one died on September 1, 1914. That is known with certainty, but further details on the history of the species at the zoo are, in Schorger’s assessment, hopelessly confused. For any given account, there is apt to be at least one other that contradicts it. What follows, then, is my best attempt at telling the story. Others have told it differently.22

  A year before the zoo opened, a patron gave two passenger pigeons to the zoological society. The zoo may have held twenty-two of the birds when it opened. Whether they were actually on display at the zoo opening is not known for sure, although it seems likely they were. The zoo then added three more pairs in 1877 at the cost of $7.50 for the lot. Soon the birds became amorous, and early in March of either 1878 or 1879, zoo director Frank Thompson observed his wards mating: “I wove three rough platforms and fastened them up in convenient places; at the same time throwing a further supply of building material on the floor. Within twenty-four hours two of the platforms were selected … A single egg was soon laid in each nest and incubation commenced.” Despite temperatures as low as fourteen degrees and the fall of so much snow that the nesting birds became completely covered, both the eggs hatched and the young fledged. Thompson wrote in an 1881 article that the flock stood at twenty despite the death of one old-timer.23

  The flock inhabited a cage ten by twelve feet. Keepers provided a diet of cracked corn, wheat, cooked liver, and eggs. In contrast to the birds held by Whittaker and Whitman, which retained their wariness in the presence of people, the Cincinnati pigeons “became very tame, and when the keeper entered the cage … they would frequently alight on his shoulder.”24

  Martha’s early time at the zoo is impossible to trace with any great confidence. This has plagued everyone who has tried to document her life. Most of the problem here arises from Salvator “Sol” Stephans, a former circus-elephant handler who took over the affairs of the zoo in 1878 and would stay for nearly half a century, until his retirement at the age of eighty-eight. He did a masterful job building the zoo into one of the country’s finest, but he seemed to have little concern for consistency in answering questions about Martha. At times he said she hatched in the zoo. In 1907 he stated that the zoo’s last female had been the bird conveyed by Whitman five years earlier. Other pigeons in the collection might have been called Martha, for Stephans told one writer that the bird, in this account born in the zoo, was named for the wife of a friend. But since her cage-mate was named George, it has generally been accepted that their monikers derived from the Washingtons.25

  And don’t even ask when the last surviving passenger pigeon was born. Christopher Cokinos wryly handles the difficulty: “Sometime in 1902, 1900, 1897, 1896, 1895, 1894, 1889, 1888, 1887, 1886, or 1885, inside an egg … a female passenger pigeon tucked her bill between her body and a wing.” It should be noted that Whitman probably did not keep track of when a given adult had been born either, for nowhere does he give the age of the bird that he sent to the Cincinnati Zoo.26

  Martha settled in. She fed, she rested, and she fluttered a bit. In her younger days, she might have tried her bill at nest building. It is possible she laid some infertile eggs. As the passing years took their toll, she watched the members of the flock slowly disappear. Stephans tried to augment the flock, but no pigeons were to be had. It is easy to become anthropomorphic about Martha’s situation as the idea of impending aloneness so absolute is heartrending, especially in light of what had been such a short time before.

  Meanwhile, by 1907 the Milwaukee pigeons had dwindled to four old males thought to be well beyond breeding age. Trying to bring the two remaining flocks together at that late date, therefore, would not have helped prolong the species, even if the idea had crossed anyone’s mind. Whittaker had relinquished his birds to another, who apparently kept them in squalid conditions. These last stalwarts all supposedly succumbed to tuberculosis between November 1908 and February 1909, and their bodies were discarded because they were deemed in poor plumage due to a delayed molt. Knowing how valuable these specimens were alive, their keepers still treated them as garbage in death. Collectors would surely have paid something for them, or at the very least, a museum somewhere would have accepted them, even if they did so without the enthusiasm they would have shown for pretty corpses.27

  The year 1909 was a tough one for the Cincinnati birds, too. One old cock died in February. Advanced age was thought to have killed him, but he, too, was in molt and thus also thrown away. When news spread that Cincinnati had the only extant pair of passenger pigeons, Stephans reported that other zoos offered up to $1,000 for Martha and George. George would last one more year, eventually as weakening that he had trouble walking. His infirmity ended on July 10, 1910 and, as far as I know, he was thrown out as well.28

  Martha had sole reign of her environs for another four years or so. Her fame grew and people made her aviary a destination. The New York Zoo is said to have done all they could to get Stephans to part with his unique exhibit. Protected from the violence that would have claimed her in nature, Martha’s vitality slowly ebbed. Keepers lowered her perch so it was mere inches above the floor. She rarely moved anymore, hardly the performance expected by the crowds. Joseph Stephans, Sol’s son, said that “on Sundays we would rope off the cage to keep the public from throwing sand at her to make her walk around.”29

  A reporter gave this description of Martha: “There will be no mistaking the bird, as its drooping wings, atremble with the palsy of extreme old age, and the white feathers in the tail, make [her] a conspicuous object.” Nothing beautiful, rousing, or frightening to see here, folks. Just an old bird near the end of life, almost agonal. Move along.30

  Due to Stephans, even the details of her death are in dispute. Most accounts say she died on September 1, 1914. Almost certainly, this was sometime after the noon hour, most probably closer to one, although it might have been four hours later. Keeper William Bruntz might have discovered her crumpled body, or perhaps the Stephanses kept her company as the life force reluctantly flickered to its conclusion, bringing closure to the feathered whirlwind that defied human understanding, if not the human capacity to destroy.31

  Martha was in molt when she died, but this time feathers were saved so they could be reattached to make her mount look more comely. She was, after all, headed to the Smithsonian Institution, and a specimen must look its best when it is slated to spend eternity as an exhibit in the National Museum. But to make sure Martha would weather the trip east, Joseph Stephans took her body to the Cincinnati Ice Company, where she was frozen in a three-hundred-pound cube of ice. Three days on a train in extreme heat reduced the frozen chunk substantially, perhaps completely, as one article says she reached her destination in a puddle of meltwater. But a photo exists of Martha lying on a slab of pitted ice that was most likely taken at the Smithsonian where she arrived on September 4.32

  The Smithsonian fully understood the importance of its new specimen. William Palmer and physician R. W. Shufeldt were quickly dispatched to photograph, skin, and necropsy the bird. To Shufeldt, Martha “had the appearance of a specimen in health, with healthy eyes, eye-lids, nostrils, and mouthparts. The feet were of a deep, flesh-colored pink, clean and healthy, while the claws presented no evidences indicative of unusual age.” They photographed the bird in several poses, then Shufeldt continued taking pictures as Palmer skinned her.33

 
At the end of their first day’s work, Palmer took the skin so it could be stuffed and mounted by the taxidermy department, while Shufeldt performed a minute examination of the bird’s internal organs. He noted the “great size” of the pectoral muscles, endowing the species with its remarkable powers of flight. More surprising was the discovery of a tiny slit in the right side of the abdomen “from which blood was oozing.” Upon his enlarging this opening, he saw that the “right lobe of the liver and the intestine almost entirely broken up, as though it had been done with some instrument. As to the intestine, it was missing altogether.” No explanation was offered, and one more mystery attaches to this iconic bird shrouded in so many.34

  I was disappointed to learn that in addition to his valuable work in avian osteology and paleontology, Shufeldt authored a vile screed on domestic race relations. So while he had no regard for many of his fellow citizens, he was moved by the object on his dissecting table. When he reached Martha’s heart, his own took over: “There is every reason to believe that the internal anatomy of … this heart of the Passenger Pigeon agree, in all structural particulars, with the corresponding ones in any large wild pigeon … I therefore did not further dissect the heart, preferring to preserve it in its entirety, —perhaps somewhat influenced by sentimental reasons, as the heart of the last ‘Blue Pigeon’ that the world will ever see alive.”35