Winchester Virginia Republican

Ornithology.

From the New-England Magazine for October, 1831.

OUR BIRDS.

A TALK IN THE WAY OF ORNITHOLOGY.

There are about four hundred different birds in the United States, three hundred and fifty of which, perhaps, may be found at some season of the year in the woods and fields in the neighborhood of Boston; yet how small a number of these are at all known to the great majority of our people! probably not fifty, out of the three hundred and fifty, would be recognized by name; and as to identifying individuals, people in general have limited their ornithological pursuits to that very shrewd performance of telling a "hawk from a handsaw." Our woods are full of song, and most of the notes are familiar to our ears, yet ninety-nine out of a hundred of us take a fly-catcher for a robin, and know no distinction between a goldfinch, a summer sylvia and a red-start, which we may hear singing every day for months together. Now we hold it to be a matter of some interest to know these little visitors, and nothing more than fair to requite, with a personal intimacy and welcome, the greeting offered by their pleasant strains.

No one can take a ramble for a quarter of an hour in the woods, in June, July or August, without having his ears saluted by a sweet, rolling, melodious whistle from the lofty branches above his head; this note is often taken for that of the robin, though any person at all acquainted with the individual could distinguish the two species of melody, at any distance capable of transmitting the faintest of these sounds to his ear. This songster is the red-eyed fly-catcher, one of the most charming and sprightly musicians that our forests can boast of. He is about the size of a sparrow, and is of an olive brown color. His lively and agreeable note is the charm of our woods from morning to night, being kept up with a spirit and perseverance equalled by few of the feathered choir. The tallest trees and the thickest woods are the favorite resort of this bird; on open plains or among low thickets, he is never seen; but among the giant arms of the old oaks, or in the dense foliage of the walnuts, or on the top of a tall and majestic elm, he is sure to take his stand and make the dark shadows of the forest ring with his sonorous warble. His performances, indeed, are not confined to the country, but our most populous cities are greeted by his visits. In a fine summer day as you walk through the mall in Boston, you may hear his mellow and enlivening whistle among the trees of that beautiful promenade, and in passing along the busiest streets, where a towering elm lifts its fresh green canopy over the brick walls, the little rustic may be heard, straining his melodious throat amid the concert of rattling carts and creaking wheelbarrows.

The nest of this charming musician is quite a curiosity; it is built often on the horizontal branch of a young walnut, oak or hornbeam, six, eight or ten feet from the ground, and is what is called a basket nest, hanging from a forked branch by the edges, like the pocket of a billiard-table, or a dip-net; they are built so near the ground as to afford opportunity for observing the mechanism pursued by the builder; and the ingenuity of this little architect in knotting his looped strings in regular triangle, and weaving his chopped leaves into the warp of his habitation, till he has brought it into proper symmetry and mathematical adjustment, is enough to fill us with admiration.

"Sic vos non vobis nidificatis aves!" It would seem a shame that so much ingenuity and industry should not be allowed the full enjoyment of the fruits of their toil; and yet nature—Heaven bless the mark!—does at times play unaccountable pranks. This same nidicular handywork—to what base uses may it come! The fly-catcher's nest, so snug and cosy, is a favorite resort of the cow-bunting, and the cradle, of course, in which a changeling usurps the honor of a legitimate heir. Mayhap you never heard of the interloper aforesaid. The cow-bunting is a bird that never builds a nest, but sneaks into that of another, and leaves its eggs to the care of strangers. If you should chance to espy in your walks through the woods, a black, impish looking rascal, fluttering from fence to bush, like a thieving caitiff, afraid to be seen, skulking among the thickets, and prying into nooks and corners with the air of a catchpole or a pickpocket, knock him down, cape saxa manu, cape robora pastor; stop his privateering; nullify him! that is the very villain, on the look-out for a nest in which to father a spurious progeny upon some unlucky wight, more industrious and christian-like than himself.

You have heard of the cuckoo, and his tricks of a similar stamp to this—the European cuckoo, I should premise,—for the cuckoo of America is a bird of different habits, and builds a nest of his own. The cow-bunting is the only American bird known to be guilty of the practice abovementioned, and, as I have just remarked, may be seen in the woods, sharking about with a stealthy movement and villainous aspect, silent and watchful, lest the "very stones should prate of his whereabout;" and peeping and nuzzling into every odd corner for a mart in which to pass off his counterfeits. Many is the decent, industrious and pains-taking little citizen, that is plagued with the visits of this prowling customer; and there is no getting clear of him, for the villain's craft is equal to his impudence; a small bird will be driven from his nest by the intruder, a large one will be watched for the moment when his back is turned. The little wren cannot hide his cradle in too close a seclusion for the eye of the prowler; the red-eyed fly-catcher's airy basket is looked upon as constituting specially desirable quarters; the tawny-thrush—simple fellow—must lend a hand at bringing up the infant rogue; the cat-bird is not cunning enough to keep out of the scrape, though various devices are resorted to by some of these birds to rid themselves of the incumbrance; some will abandon their nests when the cow-bird has laid in them; but, in general, birds will not leave eggs of their own, when a spurious one is thrust into their company. Of course, when the eggs are hatched, the brood are all equally taken care of by the dam, interloper cum ceteris,—though in most cases, the cow bunting is the first hatched, and as he quickly out-grows the rest of the brood, and with his ample dimensions and narrow quarters, feels a good deal of that incommodity which troubled our venerable friend and acquaintance, the old lady who lived in a shoe, he makes short work with his brother nestlings, and elbows them overboard without ceremony. Every cow-bunting that is reared is the destruction of three or four other birds.

The cow-bunting is peculiar to this country, and receives its name from its habit at certain seasons of frequenting the cow-pens to pick up grains and seeds; it is sometimes called cow bird, cowpen-bird and black-bird, which reminds me of many other confusions of names in our ornithology, that occasion great error and perplexity, to one not much acquainted with natural history. Our blue-jay, for instance, is called in Virginia the blue-bird: the blue-bird is called there the blue-sparrow. But the oddest perplexity is made by confounding together the partridge, quail and pheasant, in such inextricable confusion, that a traveler from Massachusetts to the south, would be sorely puzzled to tell which was which, without turning to a manual of ornithology. There is a bird in New-England called a partridge; this bird is called a pheasant in Pennsylvania, Virginia, and the Carolinas. There is a bird called a quail in New-England; but the best of the joke is, that this partridge or pheasant is neither a partridge nor a pheasant, but a ruffed grouse. There are no partridges or pheasants in the United States.

The warbling fly-catcher I should have mentioned along with his brother the red-eye; the song of this bird is, perhaps, the sweetest and most agreeable of all the tuneful choir; with a note less vigorous and emphatic than the other, he far excels him in harmonious softness of tone, and the smooth, voluble flow of his musical strains. He is much less common than the red-eye, and I do not recollect ever to have heard him within the precincts of the city; but in a woody spot in the country, or on an elm or chestnut, near your farm house, whenever you hear from out the leaves a sweet, melting, continuous warble, in a low gentle strain, yet clear and distinct—tender and approaching to languid, yet not deficient in fullness or effect—never harsh, sharp, abrupt or strong, but ever liquid, clear and soothing,—you may discover the bird I have been describing. His nest is built in the common way, in the high branches of a tree, generally an elm. He shows a considerable fondness for the society of man, by nestling near his dwellings, and his confidence and familiarity should be returned with hospitable protection,—a requital no less merited by his sociable disposition, than the surpassing sweetness of his voice.

Of the fly-catcher tribe, we have various other individuals, more or less eminent for song, as the white-eye, the red-start, and others so little known as to have no popular name. These birds, as their appellation signifies, live solely on flies, mosquitoes, bugs, &c. so that the services they perform are not limited to the sphere of their musical capacities—Some of them are hardly ever seen out of the thickest woods, as these parts abound generally in insects. The red-start must be looked for in the deepest and darkest recesses of the forest. This is a handsome little bird, of a dark brown color, with a beautiful orange on the shoulders, and white at the breast.—His note is much like that of a goldfinch or yellow-bird, and among the thick foliage of the pines or walnuts, you may observe him darting round and round from one limb to another in pursuit of his game, snapping up flies and mosquitoes, one after another, to the tune of fifty or a hundred per meal; the havoc, indeed, made by all of them among insects is prodigious. It is a fortunate and wise provision of nature that such a check should be provided to the multiplication of these insignificant, but troublesome creatures. All animated species have their irremediable grievances; and to be gobbled up by birds seems to be one of the ills that fly-flesh is heir to.

"Speaking of every thing," says Caleb Quotem, "reminds me of nothing!" Speaking of catching flies reminds me of political economy. Mr. Malthus and his acolytes might draw an argument upon analogy from the preceding fact, and others of a kindred nature, which mark the whole scheme of animated existence—in favor of his doctrine of superfecundity, and the necessity of the preventive check. There is a very manifest superfecundity in the production of birds, and a very evident and operative preventive check in the way of this increase. Most of those familiar to us lay four or five, and sometimes more, eggs; the marsh-wren lays seven or eight; and many of these birds breed twice or thrice in a season; yet do we find that any species is more numerous now than it was at any preceding period? The geometrical ratio in which they ought to increase, according to calculation, is enormous; but for all this, it does not appear that any increase takes place from year to year, even in those species which are not molested by man. An attentive observation will explain this phenomenon. The system of animated nature is one great round of destruction; hardly an inhabitant of the forest lives otherwise than by destroying some other species of animal. Both the eggs and young of birds are exposed to such a series of hazards, that, after considering their number and degree, we see cause rather for surprise, that whole species are not exterminated, than for wonder at their not increasing out of measure.

The cow-bunting, as has been already remarked, destroys a vast number; perhaps one-third of the small birds' nests will be found upon examination to have a cow-bunting's egg in them; but this is nothing to the ravages committed among the eggs and young, by the cuckoos, squirrels, pole-cats, snakes, owls, rats, foxes, &c. who are continually prowling about in search of nests. When full grown their hazards are far from being at an end; the hawks, owls and foxes, with a host of other enemies, are ready to dart upon them at every favorable opportunity; by this means a proper balance is kept up in their numbers, and no species is suffered to multiply beyond a certain limit. The philosopher, as is remarked by the great French naturalist, contemplates with pain a system so apparently cruel, yet he admires the skilful adaptation of parts, and the efficiency with which the means are fitted to the end. The individuals, who are portions of this great scheme, may rest satisfied that their private loss is public gain; and thus to fall a personal sacrifice to the proper operation of the system, would be, as Lord Byron said of being drowned in the lake of Geneva, "classical, but not agreeable!"

But stay—I have been digressing; we came forth to see, and not to philosophize. Let us look around—the dark forest environs us on every side, and the deep dell at our feet is black in the shadows of the thick pine boughs; the hill sides are shaggy with a deep forest of cedars, and the fitful breeze swelling through the dense mass of foliage, sounds like the hollow roar of the ocean; a few sunburnt rocks lift their mossy brows above the herbage, gleaming in grey and reddish masses among the fresh green thickets; all is a solitary wild, and the stillness of the scene is only broken by the shrill note of the pine-warbler, who, now and then from the dark leaves of the evergreens, trolls forth a rattling cry, which in the lonely gloom of the woods has a melancholy sound quite in unison with the savage character of the scenery.

These secluded spots and deep recesses are the favorite haunts of the wood-thrush, a bird whose note is possessed of singular melody and compass; he is very rarely to be met with, but his song, if it but once strike the ear, cannot fail to arrest your attention instantaneously, and remain impressed upon the memory ever afterwards—so very marked and peculiar are both his tone and execution. He sings seldom, generally towards evening, and is very shy. About sunset you may, by a happy chance, hear his note from the thickest part of a deep grove, and by making your way carefully through the trees, find him perched in the centre of an enormous white pine, so dark as to shut out the light of day: here, in total solitude, and unsuspicious of any intruding listener, he will chant a few slow, solemn and singularly varied tones, more like those of a flute, or a church organ, than any melody of the woods. These tones are musical in a very high degree, clear, deliberate, and regulated by pauses of considerable length. I know not any songster of our groves, whose performances are more striking or effective than the singular chants of this bird; their full, deep and impressive sounds, the solemn slowness with which they are uttered, the dark solitude of the spot, still darker from the gathering shades of evening, all combine in producing an effect similar to that of the sound of a pealing anthem, through the "long-drawn aisle and fretted vault" of a Gothic cathedral.

Let us stop a moment to contemplate this monarch oak, rearing his mighty form in lonely grandeur over the dwarfish tribes of cedar and juniper around him. The veteran of the forest towers proudly over their diminutive heads, but his pride is the pride of desolation. His gnarled and naked body has been rent by the winter tempest, and he flings abroad his giant arms no more, alas! to shake their glistening foliage in the breeze, but blasted with lightning and stretching their bare and blackened forks unsheltered into the scorching sky. A flight of ill-omened crows, whose funeral garb and hoarse scream form a fit accompaniment to this image of ruin, are perched upon the scathed limbs, or wheeling in the air overhead, croaking forth their harsh and discordant car. A thousand winters have beat against that lonely trunk, but its firm and deep-set roots held with immoveable grasp the stony bowels of the earth, the vigor and brawn of youth were in those knotty branches, and the lord of the woods bore the driving of a thousand winters against his brow unmoved, and saw a thousand snows melt from the mountain tops with firm-set foot and unworn joints. The red deer bounded along the glades under his rung; the breeze swept through his leafy locks.

Leaving the pine forest, it may be remarked, that there are fewer singing birds to be found here than in other woods; the sylvias and fly-catchers rarely frequent them; and besides those already enumerated, we shall hear hardly any other note than that of the towhee-bunting, sometimes called chewink, or ground-robin. This is an innocent and rather pretty sort of bird, of tame and familiar habits, building a nest in the ground at the foot of a pine tree, and always keeping near the earth, scratching among the bushes, or, in its highest excursions, ascending the lowest branches of a cedar or stunted pine. In scrambling among the thickets you may almost tread upon the female as she sits upon her nest; on being alarmed she will run a few yards, hop into a low branch, and begin a quick, emphatic and rather melancholy cry, "towhee, towhee," repeated at short intervals. Oftentimes in a warm day, when unmolested and in perfect quiet, they will take their stations among the branches, a short distance from each other, and repeat and answer the same note for half an hour together; this concert, though rather monotonous and plaintive, is not unpleasing. There is another very different and sprightly note uttered by this bird, so dissimilar, indeed, to the former, that one has a difficulty in believing it to proceed from the same organs that sent forth those deep and guttural tones.

From the summit of that distant tree the loud, clear whistle of the robin announces that the sun is hastening downward; and as the air grows cool, and the glare of day diminishes, his note increases in emphasis and rapidity, till the whole neighborhood rings with the music. Who is a stranger to the sweet and cheerful voice of this favorite bird, or to his innocent and familiar manners? It may not be amiss to remark that this is not the robin redbreast of Europe, which is a bird about half his size, but closely resembling him in manners.

This time of the day is also the hour commonly chosen for the vocal performance of another songster, who, on account of the lateness of the hour in which he is generally heard, is, I find, called by our country people, the nightingale,—an appellation which he certainly does not merit for the melody of his notes, although his vocal exhibitions are some of the most singular to our ears that the whole forest offers. This bird, whose proper name is tawny-thrush, has a remarkably strong, deep, blowing voice, hardly musical, but considerably varied, and which may be likened somewhat to the hollow rolling sound made by blowing into the muzzle of a gun-barrel. When heard in the stillness of the evening, and among the thick woods, where in fact they almost always keep, the effect is very striking and impressive. They may sometimes be heard during the day, when, besides the peculiar whistle just described, they more commonly utter a single, short and sharp cry. But they are more fond of the evening, and about half an hour after sunset you may take your stand at the skirt of a grove, and hear them call to one another among the dark shadows of the trees, in a full and emphatic voice, sometimes harsh and husky, and at others mellowed and tuned into a warble, not unmusical. One individual calls out—"Hwy, treon, treoo, trano, traoo;" in a few seconds another replies—"Til lil, lil, til lil lil," and this musical colloquy is kept up for half an hour, or more; there are certainly few notes that sound more curiously.

This thrush is by no means a rare bird; the woods round Boston are full of them. They are seen for a few days in the southern states, as they pass northwardly, but they breed only in these parts. Their nests are always low, commonly close to the ground, in a stunted bush, or on a pile of sticks. Their plumage so exactly resembles the color of a dead leaf, that when in search of nests a person may pass round and over them without making any discovery. The bird seems to be instinctively aware of this circumstance, and trusts to her color for concealment. When sitting on her nest, she will suffer any one to pass within a foot of her station without moving a feather.

Gentle reader and companion! the day is done. The sun is sinking behind the dark blue mountains in the west, and a great wall of leaden-colored shadow comes heaving up from the gray ocean, far off in the opposite heaven. Look now at the glorious pageant of a summer sunset! The western sky is glowing with gold and purple, and yon gorgeous company of clouds, that gather and hang around the bright track of the sinking orb, seem like blood-red banners waving over an immense curtain of green and glowing flame. A heap of dense masses are dappling the long vista of glory beyond, while their fringed edges are lighted into transparent fire by the sea of flame streaming up behind them. While we gaze, the magical scene changes. The deep crimson of the tufted folds in the clouded canopy, and the dazzling gleam of that glancing ocean of light, pass into fainter hues: the sparkling sky abates its fires, and the sheet of red flame wanes into a mild yellow. The purple tints have sunk into gray, and the last faint rays of the sun decline into the thin and silvery tinge of twilight.