A Gathering of Birds

by Donald Culross Peattie

  I have had a male bird in a state of domestication raised from the nest very readily on fresh minced meat soaked in milk. When established, his principal food was scalded Indian cornmeal, on which he fed contentedly, but was also fond of sweet cakes, insects of all descriptions, and nearly every kind of fruit. In short, he ate everything he would in a state of nature, and did not refuse to taste and eat of everything but the condiments which enter into the multifarious diet of the human species: he was literally omnivorous.

  No bird could become more tame, allowing himself to be handled with patient indifference, and sometimes with playfulness. The singular mechanical application of his bill was remarkable, and explains at once the ingenious art employed by the species in weaving their nest. If the folded hand was presented to our familiar Oriole, he endeavored to open it by inserting his pointed and straight bill betwixt the closed fingers, and then by pressing open the bill with great muscular force, in the manner of an opening pair of compasses, he contrived, if the force was not great, to open the hand and examine its contents. If brought to the face he did the same with the mouth, and would try hard to open the closed teeth. In this way, by pressing open any yielding interstice, he could readily insert the threads of his nest, and pass them through an infinity of openings, so as to form the ingenious net-work or basis of his suspensory and procreant cradle.

  MOCKINGBIRD

  THE Mocking Bird, like the Nightingale, is destitute of brilliant plumage; but his form is beautiful, delicate, and symmetrical in its proportions. His motions are easy, rapid, and graceful, perpetually animated with a playful caprice and a look that appears full of shrewdness and intelligence. He listens with silent attention to each passing sound, treasures up lessons from everything vocal, and is capable of imitating with exactness, both in measure and accent, the notes of all the feathered race. And however wild and discordant the tones and calls may be, he contrives, with an Orphean talent peculiarly his own, to infuse into them that sweetness of expression and harmonious modulation which characterize this inimitable and wonderful composer. With the dawn of morning, while yet the sun lingers below the blushing horizon, our sublime songster, in his native wilds, mounted on the topmost branch of a tall bush or tree in the forest, pours out his admirable song, which, amidst the multitude of notes from all the warbling host, still rises pre-eminent, so that his solo is heard alone, and all the rest of the musical choir appear employed in mere accompaniments to this grand actor in the sublime opera of Nature. Nor is his talent confined to imitation; his native notes are also bold, full, and perpetually varied, consisting of short expressions of a few variable syllables, interspersed with imitations and uttered with great emphasis and volubility, sometimes for half an hour at a time, with undiminished ardor. These native strains bear a considerable resemblance to those of the Brown Thrush, to whom he is so nearly related in form, habits, and manners; but, like rude from cultivated genius, his notes are distinguished by the rapidity of their delivery, their variety, sweetness, and energy. As if conscious of bis unrivalled powers of song, and animated by the harmony of his own voice, his music is, as it were, accompanied by chromatic dancing and expressive gestures; he spreads and closes his light and fanning wings, expands his silvered tail, and with buoyant gaiety and enthusiastic ecstasy he sweeps around, and mounts and descends into the air from his lofty spray as his song swells to loudness or dies away in sinking whispers. While thus engaged, so various is his talent that it might be supposed a trial of skill from all the assembled birds of the country; and so perfect are his imitations that even the sportsman is at times deceived, and sent in quest of birds that have no existence around him. The feathered tribes themselves are decoyed by the fancied call of their mates, or dive with fear into the close thicket at the well-feigned scream of the Hawk.

  Soon reconciled to the usurping fancy of man, the Mocking Bird often becomes familiar with his master; playfully attacks him through the bars of his cage, or at large in a room; restless and capricious, he seems to try every expedient of a lively imagination that may conduce to his amusement. Nothing escapes his discerning and intelligent eye or faithful ear. He whistles perhaps for the dog, who, deceived, runs to meet his master; the cries of the chicken in distress bring out the clucking mother to the protection of her brood. The barking of the dog, the piteous wailing of the puppy, the mewing of the cat, the action of a saw, or the creaking of a wheelbarrow, quickly follow with exactness. He repeats a tune of considerable length; imitates the warbling of the Canary, the lisping of the Indigo Bird, and the mellow whistle of the Cardinal, in a manner so superior to the originals that, mortified and astonished, they withdraw from his presence, or listen in silence as he continues to triumph by renewing his efforts.

  In the cage also, nearly as in the woods, he is full of life and action while engaged in song, throwing himself round with inspiring animation, and, as it were, moving in time to the melody of his own accents. Even the hours of night, which consign nearly all other birds to rest and silence, like the Nightingale he oft employs in song, serenading the houseless hunter and silent cottager to repose, as the rising moon illumines the darkness of the shadowy scene. His capricious fondness for contrast and perpetual variety appears to deteriorate his powers. His imitations of the Brown Thrush are perhaps interrupted by the crowing of the cock or the barking of the dog; the plaintive warblings of the Bluebird are then blended with the chatter of the Swallow or the cackling of the hen; amid the simple lay of the native Robin we are surprised with the vociferations of the Whip-poor-will; while the notes of the garrulous Jay, Wren, and many others succeed with such an appearance of reality that we almost imagine ourselves in the presence of the originals, and can scarcely realize the fact that the whole of this singular concert is the effort of a single bird. Indeed, it is impossible to listen to these Orphean strains, when delivered by a superior songster in his native woods, without being deeply affected and almost riveted to the spot by the complicated feelings of wonder and delight in which, from the graceful and sympathetic action, as well as enchanting voice of the performer, the eye is no less gratified than the ear. It is, however, painful to reflect that these extraordinary powers of nature, exercised with so much generous freedom in a state of confinement, are not calculated for long endurance, and after this most wonderful and interesting prisoner has survived for 6 or 7 years, blindness often terminates his gay career; and thus shut out from the cheering light, the solace of his lonely but active existence, he now after a time droops in silent sadness and dies.

  SNOWFLAKE

  THIS messenger of cold and stormy weather chiefly inhabits the higher regions of the Arctic circle, whence, as the severity of the winter threatens, they migrate indifferently over Europe, eastern Asia, and the United States. On their way to the South they appear round Hudson Bay in September, and stay till the frosts of November again oblige them to seek out warmer quarters. Early in December they make their descent into the Northern States in whirling roving flocks, either immediately before or soon after an inundating fall of snow. Amidst the drifts, and as they accumulate with the blast, flocks of these illwars fogel, or bad-weather birds, of the Swedes, like the spirits of the storm are to be seen flitting about in restless and hungry troops, at times resting on the wooden fences, though but for an instant, as, like the congenial Tartar hordes of their natal regions, they appear now to have no other object in view but an escape from famine and to carry on a general system of forage while they happen to stay in the vicinity. At times, pressed by hunger, they alight near the door of the cottage and approach the barn, or even venture into the out-houses in quest of dormant insects, seeds, or crumbs wherewith to allay their hunger; they are still, however, generally plump and fat, and in some countries much esteemed for the table. In fine weather they appear less restless, somewhat more familiar, and occasionally even at this season they chant out a few unconnected notes as they survey the happier face of Nature. At the period of incubation they are said to sing agreeably, but app
ear to seek out the most desolate regions of the cheerless North in which to waste the sweetness of their melody, unheard by any ear but that of their mates. The nest is here fixed on the ground in the shelter of low bushes, and formed nearly of the same materials as that of the Common Song Sparrow.

  At times they proceed as far south in the United States as the State of Maryland. They are here generally known by the name of the White Snow Bird, to distinguish them from the more common dark-bluish Sparrow, so called. They vary in their color according to age and season, and have always a great predominance of white in the plumage.

  The Snow Buntings are seen in spring to assemble in Norway and its islands in great numbers; and after a stay of about three weeks they disappear for the season, and migrate across the Arctic Ocean to the farthest known land. On their return in winter to the Scottish Highlands their flocks are said to be immense, mingling, by an aggregating close flight, almost into the form of a ball, so as to present a very fatal and successful mark for the fowler. They arrive lean, but soon become fat. In Austria they are caught in snares or traps, and when fed with millet become equal to the Ortolan in value and flavor. When caged they show a very wakeful disposition, instantly hopping about in the night when a light is produced. Indulgence in this constant train of action and perpetual watchfulness may perhaps have its influence on this species, in the selection of their breeding places within the Arctic regions, where for months they continue to enjoy a perpetual day.

  The food of these birds consists of various kinds of seeds and the larvas of insects and minute shell-fish; the seeds of aquatic plants are also sometimes sought by them, and I have found in their stomachs those of the Ruppia, species of Polygonum, and gravel. In a state of confinement they shell and eat oats, millet, hemp-seed, and green peas, which they split. They rarely perch, and, like Larks, live much on the ground.

  This harbinger of winter breeds in the northernmost of the American islands and on all the shores of the continent from Chesterfield Inlet to Behring’s Straits. The most southerly of its breeding stations in America, according to Richardson, is Southampton Island, in the 62d. parallel, where Captain Lyons found a nest, by a strange fatality, placed in the bosom of the exposed corpse of an Esquimaux child. Well clothed and hardy by nature, the Snow Bunting even lingers about the forts of the fur countries and open places, picking up grass-seeds, until the snow becomes deep. It is only during the months of December and January that it retires to the southward of Saskatchewan, and it is seen again there on its return as early as the middle of February, two months after which it arrives in the 65th parallel, and by the beginning of May it has penetrated to the coast of the Polar Sea. At this period it feeds upon the buds of the purple saxifrage (saxifraga oppositifolia), one of the most early of the Arctic plants.

  YELLOW-LEGS

  THESE birds reside chiefly in the salt-marshes, and frequent low flats and estuaries at the ebb of the tide, wading in the mud in quest of worms, insects, and other small marine and fluviatile animals. They seldom leave these maritime situations, except driven from the coast by storms, when they may occasionally be seen in low and wet meadows as far inland as the extent of tide-water. The Yellow-Shanks have a sharp whistle of three or four short notes, which they repeat when alarmed and when flying, and sometimes utter a simple, low, and rather hoarse call, which passes from one to the other at the moment of rising on the wing. They are very impatient of any intrusion on their haunts, and thus often betray the approach of the sportsman to the less vigilant of the feathered tribes, by flying around his head, with hanging legs and drooping wings, uttering incessant and querulous cries.

  At the approach of autumn small flocks here also accompany the Upland Plover (Totanus bartramius), flying high and whistling as they proceed inland to feed, but returning again towards the marshes of the sea-coast to roost. Sometimes, and perhaps more commonly at the approach of stormy weather, they are seen in small restless bands roving over the salt-marshes and tacking and turning along the meanders of the river, now crossing, then returning; a moment alighting, the next on the wing. They then spread out and reconnoitre; again closing in a loose phalanx, the glittering of their wings and snow-white tails are seen conspicuous as they mount into the higher regions of the air; and now intent on some more distant excursion, they rise, whistling on their way, high over the village spire and beyond the reach of danger, pursue their way to some other clime or to explore new marshes and visit other coasts more productive of their favorite fare. While skimming along the surface of the neighboring river, I have been amused by the sociability of these wandering waders. As they course steadily along, the party, never very numerous, would be joined by some straggling Peeps, who all in unison pursue their route together like common wanderers or travellers, pleased and defended by the access of any company.

  XI

  WILLIAM BEEBE

  THE first scientific book on birds that I ever read was given me, when I was in my ‘teens, by a person even younger than myself. The donor was my future wife, and the book was The Bird by William Beebe. I wonder if many other young readers have not, like myself, taken their step beyond the field identification of birds through this excellent book? For me it revealed the relationship of structure to function; it taught me my first (and still so incomplete) notions of anatomy which are, after all, the basis of those very systematics by which so many of us progress from esthetic to scientific appreciation.

  And the first book that I ever bought with money earned on my twelve-dollar-a-week job was Dr. Beebe’s Jungle Peace (1918) from which I have selected for quotation his now famous experience of that incredible South American bird, the hoatzin. These two books, still on the shelves behind me, constituted the starting point of my small library on ornithology.

  Dr. Beebe is probably the most widely popular of American naturalists today. The brilliance of his popularizations and his feat of descent by bathysphere into the depths of the ocean account in part for his fame that is so firmly established even with those who know little of science. His public career, then, needs no comment here; his achievements in oceanography are outside the scope of these few lines; my concern will be with Dr. Beebe the ornithologist, and it will be understood that his learning of natural history in general and his accomplishments in many fields outside ornithology are assumed as acknowledged.

  William Beebe was born in Brooklyn, N. Y., in 1877. His boyhood was spent in East Orange, and he was early fascinated by Nature. This interest was encouraged by his parents, while the romances of Jules Verne fostered his love of exploration and filled his young mind with visions of traveling forty thousand leagues under the sea and visiting incredible tropic isles. While the French novelist had to journey in the realms of imagination only, Dr. Beebe has been privileged to accomplish his dreams.

  At the age of nineteen young Beebe entered Columbia and passed under the tutelage of Prof. Henry Fairfield Osborn who from the first believed him a pupil of outstanding brilliance. Soon after leaving college Beebe was appointed curator of birds at the then new Zoölogical Society’s headquarters in Bronx Park (known to New Yorkers simply as “the Bronx zoo").

  Dr. Beebe left very soon for Mexico in quest of birds. Again, he journeyed to Venezuela and British Guiana. Between trips he worked at the Bronx on the construction of the water bird, land bird, and ostrich houses.