It is pleasant to watch the establishment and progress of a colony of these birds. Suddenly they appear—quite animated and enthusiastic, but undecided as yet; an impromptu debating society on the fly, with a good deal of sawing the air to accomplish, before final resolutions are passed. The plot thickens; some Swallows are seen clinging to the slightest inequalities beneath the eaves, others are couriers to and from the nearest mud-puddle; others again alight like feathers by the water’s side, and all are in a twitter of excitement. Watching closely these curious sons and daughters of Israel at their ingenious trade of making bricks, we may chance to see a circle of them gathered around the margin of the pool, insecurely balanced on their tiny feet, tilting their tails and ducking their heads to pick up little “gobs” of mud. These are rolled round in their mouths till tempered, and made like a quid into globular form, with a curious working of their jaws; then off go the birds, and stick the pellet against the wall, as carefully as ever a sailor, about to spin a yarn, deposited his chew on the mantel-piece. The birds work indefatigably; they are busy as bees, and a steady stream flows back and forth for several hours a day, with intervals for rest and refreshment, when the Swallows swarm about promiscuously a-flycatching. In an incredibly short time, the basement of the nest is laid, and the whole form becomes clearly outlined; the mud dries quickly, and there is a standing place. This is soon occupied by one of the pair, probably the female, who now stays at home to welcome her mate with redoubled cries of joy and ecstatic quivering of the wings, as he brings fresh pellets, which the pair in closest consultation dispose to their entire satisfaction. In three or four days, perhaps, the deed is done; the house is built, and nothing remains but to furnish it. The poultry-yard is visited, and laid under contribution of feathers; hay, leaves, rags, paper, string—Swallows are not very particular—may be added; and then the female does the rest of the “furnishing” by her own particular self. Not impossibly, just at this period, a man comes with a pole, and demolishes the whole affair; or the enfant terrible of the premises appears, and removes the eggs to enrich his sanded tray of like treasures; or a tom-cat reaches for his supper. But more probably matters are so propitious that in due season the nest decants a full brood of Swallows—and I wish that nothing more harmful ever came out of the bottle.
Seeing how these birds work the mud in their mouths, some have supposed that the nests are agglutinated, to some extent at least, by the saliva of the birds. It is far from an unreasonable idea—the Chimney Swift sticks her bits of twigs together, and glues the frail cup to the wall with viscid saliva; and some of the Old World Swifts build nests of gummy spittle, which cakes on drying, not unlike gelatine. Undoubtedly some saliva is mingled with the natural moisture of the mud; but the readiness with which these Swallows’ nests crumble on drying shows that saliva enters slightly into their composition—practically not at all—and that this fluid possesses no special viscosity. Much more probably, the moisture of the birds’ mouths helps to soften and temper the pellets, rather than to agglutinate the dried edifice itself.
In various parts of the West, especially along the Missouri and the Colorado, where I have never failed to find clustering nests of the Cliff Swallow, I have occasionally witnessed some curious associates of these birds. In some of the navigable cañons of the Colorado, I have seen the bulky nests of the Great Blue Heron on flat ledges of rock, the faces of which were stuccoed with Swallow-nests. How these frolicsome creatures must have swarmed around the sedate and imperturbable Herodias, when she folded up her legs and closed her eyes, and went off into the dreamland of incubation, undisturbed, in a very Babel! Again, I have found a colony of Swallows in what would seem to be a very dangerous neighborhood—all about the nest of a Falcon, no other than the valiant and merciless Falco polyagrus, on the very minarets and buttresses of whose awe-inspiring castle, on the scowling face of a precipice, a colony of Swallows was established in apparent security. The big birds seemed to be very comfortable ogres, with whom the multitude of hop-o’-my-thumbs had evidently some sort of understanding, perhaps like that which the Purple Grackles may be supposed to have with the Fish-hawks when they set up housekeeping in the cellar of King Pandion’s palace. If it had only been a Fish-hawk in this case instead [of] Falco polyagrus, we could understand such amicable relations better—for Cliff Swallows are cousins of Purple Martins, and, if half we hear be true, Progne was Pandion’s daughter.
* Sir John Richardson (1787-1865), the famous Scottish naturalist, surgeon to Franklin’s first Arctic expedition. [Ed.]
COW-BIRD
PARASITISM, in the zoölogical sense of the term a frequent condition of lower forms of life, is sufficiently rare among higher animals to excite special interest; and the exceptional absence of the strong parental instincts of birds is particularly noteworthy. Considering that conscious volition—that choice, in a word—determines the whole process of perpetuation of the species in the Cow-bird, denying all but the purely sexual of conjugal relations, abrogating parental relations, and rendering family relations impossible, we must concede a case of parasitism having almost an ethical significance, to such an extreme is it pushed.
It is singular that this particular kind of parasitism should occur in the isolated cases of birds so unlike, as Cuckoos and Cow-birds, and only there, so far as we know.
It does not appear that the Cow-bird ever attempts to take forcible possession of a nest. She watches her chance while the owners are away, slips in by stealth, and leaves the evidence of her unfriendly visit to be discovered on their return, in the shape of the ominous egg. The parents hold anxious consultation in this emergency, as their sorrowful cries and disturbed actions plainly indicate. If their nest was empty before, they generally desert it, and their courage in giving up a cosy home results in one Cow-bird the less. Sometimes even after there is an egg of their own in the nest, they have nerve enough to let it go, rather than assume the hateful task of incubating the strange one. But if the female has already laid an egg or two, the pair generally settle into the reluctant conviction that there is no help for it; they quiet down after awhile, and things go on as if nothing had happened. Not always, however, will they desert even an empty nest; some birds have discovered a way out of the difficulty—it is the most ingenious device imaginable, and the more we think about it the more astonishing it seems. They build a two-story nest, leaving the obnoxious egg in the basement.
The Cow-bird’s foster-parents are numerous; the list of those so determined is already large, and when completed will probably comprise pretty much all of the species nesting within the Cow-bird’s breeding range, from the size of a Thrush down to that of the Gnatcatcher. It is unnecessary to recite the long list; I will mention, however, the Wood Thrush, Yellow-breasted Chat, and Towhee Bunting, as showing that the foster-birds are not always smaller than the Cow-bird itself. The Summer Yellowbird, the Maryland Yellow-throat, and the Red-eyed Vireo, are among those most persistently victimized. On the prairies of the west, where the Cow-birds are very numerous, and breeding birds restricted in number of species if not of individuals, I had almost said that in a majority of the nests taken in June will be found a Cow-bird’s egg.
It is interesting to observe the female Cow-bird ready to lay. She becomes disquieted; she betrays unwonted excitement, and ceases her busy search for food with her companions. At length she separates from the flock, and sallies forth to reconnoitre, anxiously indeed, for her case is urgent, and she has no home. How obtrusive is the sad analogy! She flies to some thicket, or hedge-row, or other common resort of birds, where, something teaches her—perhaps experience—nests will be found. Stealthily and in perfect silence she flits along, peering furtively, alternately elated or dejected, into the depths of the foliage. She espies a nest, but the owner’s head peeps over the brim, and she must pass on. Now, however, comes her chance; there is the very nest she wishes, and no one at home. She disappears for a few minutes, and it is almost another bird that comes out of the bush. Her business
done, and trouble over, she chuckles her self-gratulations, rustles her plumage to adjust it trimly, and flies back to her associates. They know what has happened, but are discreet enough to say nothing—charity is often no less wise than kind.
Polygamy is rare among higher birds; in no creatures are the parental and conjugal instincts more strongly developed or beautifully displayed. But the Cow-bird illustrates this mode of life, and not in the lordly manner of the barn-yard cock, so devoted to his harem, so gallant and just to all. As in this species there is no love of offspring, neither can there be conjugal affection; all family ties are dispensed with. The association is a mere herding together in quest of food in similar resorts. The Cow-birds never mate; their most intimate relations are no sooner effected than forgotten; not even the decent restrictions of a seraglio are observed; it is a perfect community of free-lovers, who do as the original Cynics did. The necessary courtship becomes in consequence a curiously mixed affair. During the period corresponding to the mating season of orderly birds, the patriarchs of the sorry crew mount up the trees and fences, to do what they call their singing. They posture and turn about, and ruffle their feathers to look bigger than Nature made them; if their skins were not tough they would certainly burst with vanity. They puff out their throats and pipe the most singular notes, perhaps honestly wishing to please their companions of the other sex—at any rate, to their own satisfaction. Meanwhile the females are perched near by, but without seeming very enthusiastic—rather taking it all as a matter of course, listening at times, it may be, but just as likely preening their plumage, with other thoughts and an ulterior purpose. The performance over, it is a very little while afterward when the whole band goes trooping after food in the nearest cattle-yard or pasture.
Cow-birds appear to be particularly abundant in the West; more so, perhaps, than they really are, for the numbers that in the East spread equally over large areas are here drawn within small compass, owing to lack of attractions abroad. Every wagon-train passing over the prairies in summer is attended by flocks of the birds; every camp and stock-corral, permanent or temporary, is besieged by the busy birds, eager to glean subsistence from the wasted forage. Their familiarity under these circumstances is surprising. Perpetually wandering about the feet of the draught-animals, or perching upon their backs, they become so accustomed to man’s presence that they will hardly get out of the way. I have even known a young bird to suffer itself to be taken in hand, and it is no uncommon thing to have the birds fluttering within a few feet of one’s head. The animals appear to rather like the birds, and suffer them to perch in a row upon their backbones, doubtless finding the scratching of their feet a comfortable sensation, to say nothing of the riddance from insect parasites.
A singular point in the history of this species is its unexplained disappearance, generally in July, from many or most localities in which it breeds. Where it goes, and for what purpose, are unknown; but the fact is attested by numerous observers. Sometimes it reappears in September in the same places, sometimes not. Thus, in North Dakota, I saw none after early in August.
BURROWING OWL
THE Burrowing Owl is the only bird of its family inhabiting in any numbers, the entirely treeless regions of the West. Wherever it can find shelter in the holes of such animals as wolves, foxes, and badgers, and especially of the various species of marmot squirrels, there it is found in abundance; and in not a few instances small colonies are observed living apart from their ordinary associates, in holes apparently dug by themselves. They constitute a notable exception to the general rule of arboricole habits in this family, being specially fitted by their conformation for the subterranean mode of life for which they are designed, and are furthermore exceptional in their gregarious disposition, here carried to the extreme.
Having been noticed by the earlier writers in special connection with the singular settlements of the prairie-dog (Cynomys ludovicianus), and the life relations of the two creatures being really intimate in very many localities, an almost inseparable association of ideas has been brought about, which is only partly true; and it was a long time before the whole truth in the case became apparent. When competent observers, familiar with the animals, disagree, as they have, respecting the kind and degree of relation between the bird and the mammals, we need not be surprised at conflict of opinion in the books of naturalists who never saw either of them alive. The case is further complicated by the introduction of the rattlesnakes; and no little pure bosh is in type respecting the harmonious and confidential relations, imagined to subsist between the trio, which, like the “happy family” of Barnum, lead Utopian existences. According to the dense bathos of such nursery tales, in this underground Elysium the snakes give their rattles to the puppies to play with, the old dogs cuddle the Owlets, and farm out their own litters to the grave and careful birds; when an Owl and a dog come home, paw-in-wing, they are often mistaken by their respective progeny, the little dogs nosing the Owls in search of the maternal font, and the old dogs left to wonder why the baby Owls will not nurse. It is a pity to spoil a good story for the sake of a few facts, but as the case stands, it would be well for the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals to take it up. First, as to the reptiles, it may be observed that they are like other rattlesnakes, dangerous, venomous creatures; they have no business in the burrows, and are after no good when they do enter. They wriggle into the holes, partly because there is no other place for them to crawl into on the bare, flat plain, and partly in search of Owls’ eggs, Owlets, and puppies, to eat. Next, the Owls themselves are simply attracted to the villages of prairie-dogs as the most convenient places for shelter and nidification, where they find eligible ready-made burrows, and are spared the trouble of digging for themselves. Community of interest makes them gregarious to an extent unusual among rapacious birds; while the exigencies of life on the plains cast their lot with the rodents. That the Owls live at ease in the settlements, and on familiar terms with their four-footed neighbors, is an undoubted fact; but that they inhabit the same burrows, or have any intimate domestic relations, is quite another thing. It is no proof that the quadruped and the birds live together, that they are often seen to scuttle at each other’s heels into the same hole when alarmed; for in such a case the two simply seek the nearest shelter, independently of each other. The probability is, that young dogs often furnish a meal to the Owls, and that, in return, the latter are often robbed of their eggs; while certainly the young of both, and the Owls’ eggs, are eaten by the snakes. In the larger settlements there are thousands upon thousands of burrows, many occupied by the dogs, but more, perhaps, vacant. These latter are the homes of the Owls. Moreover, the ground below is honey-combed with communicating passages, leading in every direction. If the underground plan could be mapped, it would resemble the city of Boston, with its tortuous and devious streets. The dogs are continually busy in fair weather in repairing and extending their establishments; the main entrances may be compared to the stump of a hollow tree, the interior of which communicates with many hollow branches that moreover intersect, these passages finally ending in little pockets, the real home of the animals. It is quite possible that the respective retreats of a dog and an Owl may have but one vestibule, but even this does not imply that they nest together. It is strong evidence in point, that usually there are the fewest Owls in the towns most densely populated by the dogs, and conversely. Scarcity of food, of water, or some obscure cause, often makes the dogs emigrate from one locality to another; it is in such “deserted villages” that the Owls are usually seen in the greatest numbers. I have never seen them so numerous as in places where there are plenty of holes, but where scarcely a stray dog remained.
I never undertook to unearth the nest of a Burrowing Owl, but others have been more zealous in the pursuit of knowledge under difficulties. Dr. Cooper says that he once dug two fresh eggs out of a burrow, which he followed down for three feet, and then traced five feet horizontally, at the end of which he found an enlarged chamber
, where the eggs were deposited on a few feathers. In his interesting note in the American Naturalist, Dr. C. S. Canfield gives a more explicit account of the nesting: “I once took pains to dig out a nest of the Athene cunicularia. I found that the burrow was about four feet long, and the nest was only about two feet from the surface of the ground. The nest was made in a cavity of the ground, of about a foot in diameter, well filled with dry, soft horse-dung, bits of an old blanket, and fur of a coyote (Cam’s latrans) that I had killed a few days before. One of the parent birds was on the nest, and I captured it. It had no intention of leaving the nest, even when entirely uncovered with the shovel and exposed to the open air. It fought bravely with beak and claws. I found seven young ones, perhaps eight or ten days old, well covered with down, but without any feathers. There are very few birds that carry more rubbish into the nest than the Athene; and even the Vultures are not much more filthy. I am satisfied that the A. cunicularia lays a larger number of eggs than is attributed to it. I have frequently seen, late in the season, six, seven, or eight young birds standing around the mouth of a burrow, isolated from others in such a manner that I could not suppose that they belonged to two or more families.”
A Gathering of Birds Page 23
