Songs and Eccentricities of Birds

I OFTEN think how dreary the face of nature would seem, though the landscape abounded in all things that captivate the sight and the imagination, if it were not inhabited by birds, or if these birds were without songs. Yet it is not the melody of their voices that charms us, so much as their power to enliven the pleasant solitude of our woods and fields without disturbing our meditations. While there is sufficient melody in their songs to lull and amuse the mind, they have nothing, except in a few cases, of the formality of artificial music, which would fix our attention and interrupt our thoughts. The reader has undoubtedly observed, when employed in study, or in any pursuit that requires close attention, that there are certain sounds and combinations of sound that harmonize with our thoughts, and others that distract them.

We are seldom discomposed by the songs of birds; but this cannot in general be said of artificial music. If it is bad, while it is within our hearing we find it impossible to fix our attention upon our task; and if it is good, it disturbs the mind nearly in proportion to its formality. But if it is of such a character as we expect in a well-composed voluntary for the organ, having no very conspicuous theme, and without symmetry in its modulation, though perfectly harmonized, we may pursue our task while hearing it even more fixedly than in perfect silence. Let the organist, in the midst of it, strike a measured strain full of expression, and our attention is diverted at once from our task to the music. All bad music is disturbing; but of good music that only distracts the attention which is extremely rhythmical or expressive.

If we carefully examine the subject, we shall discover this fact: that the music which occasions no disturbance of our thoughts, if good, is of a character similar to that of the warbling of birds. It agreeably fills the ear by a sort of running melody that has but little expression, and is yet without monotony. There is a certain style of eloquence that produces a similar composing effect, though not persuasive or convincing. A sermon must have considerable merit to operate as a tranquillizer; for nobody except a child or a dull person could sleep while hearing a bad sermon or bad music. A pleasant harmony of thoughts and style marks the sermon that puts men into a quiet slumber. If we were present while a pulpit orator and a good reader was delivering a finely written discourse, without giving utterance to sentiments that were very tangible, we might pursue almost any train of thought while he was speaking. But let him occasionally make either a foolish or a keen remark, and our attention would be immediately diverted from our own thoughts. These quieting sermons are like a good bird song, or an organ voluntary.

All bird music, however, is not composing. There are some feathered songsters whose notes are rhythmical, and form an exception to the general warbling of birds. Everybody admires the song of the whip-poor-will; especially if no more than two or three are heard at the same time, and are widely Separated. The whip-poor-will’s notes are rhythmical, —they are measured music. Though they are delightful partly on account of this formality, yet on the same account they fix our attention, and like any other precisely measured tune would soon become wearisome. It is no paradox to assert that those tunes and those notes which are the most expressive soonest tire upon the ear. It is a happy circumstance for the lovers of nature that birds and insects arid winds and waters are sweetly modulated without rhythm.

A part of the interest that, attaches to the chickadee, the most noted and familiar of our winter birds, is proof that a song is not necessary to make the voice of a bird agreeable. All his notes are pleasant, and there is a great variety of them, but they are not measured or continuous. Their principal charm is derived from their association with the cheerful habits and sylvan habitats of this bird, his lively motions and interesting ways. The call note, from which he derives his name, is one of the most animated sounds that can be imagined. Chickadee-dee-dee is sure to be uttered, at irregular intervals of two or three minutes, by each individual of any small scattered flock that may he assembled near our windows.

Chickadees do not forage in compact flocks, like the sparrows and other granivorous birds, whose food, consisting of the seeds of grasses and other herbs, is distributed profusely over almost every open field. The food of the chickadees, being wholly of insects and their eggs and chrysalids, which are lodged upon the wood and hark of trees, is not abundant in any place, and can be obtained only by diligent search. Chickadees are therefore obliged to scatter, like woodpeckers, because their food is scattered. We very rarely see more than two or three of them upon a tree at the same time. Their dispersion, however, is not the result of any concerted arrangement among the birds. They naturally pursue that course which is attended with the most success. But so invariable is this instinct that if a spot were covered with their food it would probably be visited by only two or three at a time.

Yet, though never associated in large companies, they do not like to be alone. While busy in their search for insects, they frequently utter the cry of chickadee, as boys will halloo, when a party of them are scattered over a whortleberry pasture. This cry, if heard, is immediately answered by other birds of the scattered flock. These calls and responses serve to notify them of each other’s presence. If there should be no answer, the bird immediately flies to another tree, and repeats his call, until he hears a reply and is assured of the nearness of his comrades. Woodpeckers are much less noisy. They do not need so many notes of greeting and assurance, because their frequent hammering upon the trees answers a similar purpose. Nature bestows on birds and other animals only just such an amount of language as their wants and circumstances require.

The chickadee occasionally utters a plaintive strain, for which I have not been able to assign a motive. It consists of two notes, the first about a third above the second note in the musical scale. I am obliged to confess that I have not learned whether this strain is uttered in all seasons, or only in the spring and summer; but I suppose it to be the love-song of the male. Though it seems too feeble and wanting in animation for a love-song, who can say that the chickadee may not be a sentimentalist, and prefer to woo his mate with a plaintive note, instead of teasing her with volubility, like the bobolink?

We can seldom watch the chickadees, day after day, in summer, without hearing another strain, very different from either of those I have described. It consists of a low, subdued warbling, full of chattering notes variously modulated and rapidly delivered, without sufficient distinctness to deserve the name of a song. I cannot imagine what instinct or sentiment prompts the little bird to warble this peculiar medley. It seems to be a kind of soliloquy; for whenever I have heard it, the bird was alone, and half concealed among the branches of the trees. We might fancy him to be amusing a lonely hour, as a boy whistles when walking alone on a road. These several utterances of the chickadee entitle it to the character of a highly musical bird; and as it is a constant resident with us, and is in winter very familiar and vocal around our dwellings, I believe there is no songster in the woods that would be more painfully missed if its species were exterminated.

It is seldom that we hear the notes of the chickadee anywhere near the woods without discovering the downy woodpecker somewhere in the vicinity, distinguishing him by his speckled plumage, his scarlet crown, and his sudden and rapid movements. This little bird seems, as it were, a companion of the chickadee, though the two birds have probably no particular acquaintance with each other. In the lonely season of winter, birds of similar habits have a general inclination to associate, for mutual protection; they are cheered by hearing the voices of others around them. But there seems to be a sort of affinity between the small woodpeckers, the creepers, and the chickadees. They do not join company, but they keep within hearing of one another from a sociable feeling, of which they probably have no less than the gregarious species.

A singular habit of the downy woodpecker, and one with which all are familiar, is that which has gained him the name of “sap-sucker.” He bores little round holes just through the bark of the tree, usually an apple-tree, not penetrating into the wood of the branch. These holes form a complete circle round the branch of the tree, about half an inch apart. No theory has yet been advanced that explains satisfactorily the object of the bird in making these perforations. The theory that they are made for the purpose of sap-sucking is after all the most rational one. Admitting this to be the true explanation, the cause of their arrangement in a circle is still a mystery. Our farmers were formerly very jealous of these little sapsuckers, considering their practice injurious to the health of the trees. A long series of observations has proved its harmlessness.

The gregarious habits of certain species of birds, and the more solitary habits of others, are the necessary consequence of their different ways of feeding. The insect-eaters among land-birds are seldom associated in flocks; but they are fond of company, and do not like to be alone. The granivorous birds, on the other hand, with a few exceptions, are gregarious. Such are the English sparrows and our snow-buntings; and it is remarkable that the bobolinks, which feed on insects during their breeding season at the North, are never seen in flocks until the autumn, when they are changed into rice-birds, and feed exclusively on seeds. During the time between early autumn and May they forage in flocks.

Compare in this respect our common robin and the red-winged blackbird. The robin is exclusively insectivorous; for the fruit he consumes is his dessert, not his subsistence, and he swallows no kinds of seeds. The red-wing, on the contrary, is omnivorous, and a greedy consumer of every kind of grain. Hence, robins are never seen in large or compact flocks. Seldom is a gunner able to shoot more than one or two of them at once, so scattered are the members of their small assemblages. Blackbirds, on the contrary, especially in spring and autumn, are rarely seen except in compact flocks. They are so numerous that four and twenty blackbirds have often been baked in a pie, which were obtained by a single charge of shot. The cause of this difference in their habits is that robins, on account of their exclusive diet of grubs and insects, are obliged to forage singly; while blackbirds, who are voracious of every eatable substance that lies upon the ground, sometimes glean a whole field by marching in companies.

It is not every species of seed-eaters that assembles in compact flocks. The American goldfinch, or thistle-bird, and nearly all the finches are examples. Here it should be remarked that goldfinches are choice and dainty of their food, and do not look for seeds that are scattered upon the ground. They peck the seeds directly from the plant that bears them, and take off the shells, like a canary, before they swallow the kernels. In grass fields that have not been gleaned, a large flock of buntings would find ample forage for any single repast. But goldfinches must scatter, because the hemp, thistles, and other compound plants that afford them subsistence are distributed unequally, and seldom cover a whole field. The goldfinch hunts for his cereal food in the same way as the chickadee hunts for grubs and insects.

The goldfinch does not tarry with us all the winter, but he is often seen in the beginning, and is likewise an early comer in the spring. He stays as late as he can obtain a good supply of food. A snow-storm in the early part of November would drive all his species to the South. He is noisy, like the chickadee, and all his notes are musical. After the breeding season is over, the goldfinches continue to utter several melodious notes, and seldom pass from one place to another without piping a lively strain, evidently a sort of call note, like pe, pe, pe, accenting the middle syllable on every descent in their undulating flight. These notes have probably the effect of keeping the scattrered flock together, or within hearing distance of one another. They produce to my ears all the effects of a song, when numbers of the birds are assembled in a field, busy in peeking seeds from thistles, asters, and golden-rods, and constantly chirping as they fly from one plant to another.

The song of the goldfinch is very melodious, and deserves a higher rank than is usually assigned it. He is not an inveterate singer, and forfeits some of his reputation by singing fragments of tunes. He does not persist long enough to show us the extent of his capacity. We seldom hear him finish a tune, and he never devotes his time exclusively to song, nor sits, like the red thrush, on the same branch, singing half an hour without cessation.

The goldfinches have a singular habit of singing as it were in concert. An account of this peculiarity was first published by Mr. Augustus Fowler, of Danvers. The concert takes place only in the spring, before the birds have built their nests, — probably before they have mated. While chattering together upon a tree, where a company of them have assembled, as soon as they perceive the approach of a new-comer, especially if it be a female, they raise a simultaneous shout of song. This habit makes it probable that a feeling of rivalry inspires the males before they are mated, and that their shouting proceeds from the eagerness of each to attract the attention of the new-comer to himself. Out of this rivalry among the goldfinches springs a concert that seems like a premeditated performance.

These birds wait till the last of June before they build their nests. Their first broods of young, therefore, appear when the robin and song sparrow are bringing out their second family. Nuttall says, “ This procrastination appears to be occasioned by a lack of a sufficiently nutritive diet, the seeds on which they principally feed not ripening before July.” But no species of bird that carries food to its young in the nest feeds them with ripened seeds of any kind. Mr. Fowler’s explanation is probably the correct one. He says they defer the building of their nests so that the young shall come out just in time to be fed upon the seeds when they are soft and milky. Other species of seed-eaters feed their offspring upon larvæ, and the young birds do not use a diet of seeds until they begin to take care of themselves.

This delay in building their nests seems to be attended with some impatience on the part of the males. On this supposition only can I explain another of their peculiar habits. In my academic years, my study windows looked down upon a row of Lombardy poplars. These trees have a dense growth of the little upright branches which are very convenient for the nests of small birds. At that period, on different occasions, I have observed a male goldfinch, who, after building a nest in one of these poplars, has pecked it to pieces and built another nest with the same materials in its vicinity. The nest that was destroyed was not occupied in any instance; and the second one sometimes remained vacant. Perhaps the male bird amuses himself by such labors while his mate is sitting on another nest; or perhaps he is impatient to begin housekeeping, and prepares for it while he is not yet mated.

I have not seen any mention of this habit in our ornithological works; but I am happy to confirm my own observation by quoting an account of a similar fact which was related to me in a letter from Mr. Charles Mortimer, of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. He writes, “ I discovered the nest of a yellow bird (goldfinch) in the upper branches of a brier willow, containing one egg. The bird appeared to be in the act of pulling the nest to pieces, which surprised me very much; and, pleased at the chance of procuring a specimen so easily, I at once concluded to remove the nest and egg, although they were somewhat dilapidated. The nest is exceedingly light, being built chiefly of thistle down, and outwardly of some coarser stuff, such as fibres of bark, flax, etc., to give stability and strength to the structure.”

I believe it is a general opinion that the song of a bird is a disinterested effort on the part of the male to comfort his mate and assure her of his presence while sitting on her nest. Certainly, the song produces this desirable effect; but this does not seem to be the motive of the songster. On the contrary, it is an outpouring of his impatience on account of her absence, and an effort to call some other female to join him. Though the male bird often takes his turn in sitting upon the nest during incubation, he is impatient while thus employed, and spends only a small part of his time in performing this duty. While his mate is sitting, he is evidently dissatisfied with her absence, and sings more loudly at that time than after the young appear, when his time is more or less employed in procuring food for them. Even in this respect he is not so diligent as his mate. If we watch a pair of robins when they have a brood of young to feed, we shall see that the female provides the greater part of their subsistence.

This disposition on the part of male birds to carry on a flirtation with some other female, while their mate is sitting, may be observed by watching one in a flock of common tame pigeons. While his mate is employed in her maternal duties, her lonesome partner resumes the same loud cooing that was heard while he was choosing his mate. The delight which he always expresses when some young, unmated female, hearing his call, alights on his standing place is very evident. That constancy for which doves have been proverbially celebrated is a trait of character which belongs only to the female.

The cries of all birds, as well as of other animals, serve undoubtedly a definite purpose in their economy. They do not, like boys, utter their cries to be amused at the noise they make. I have my doubts whether a bird ever sings on a cock ever crows for amusement. There is a purpose in all their notes and cries, though they may not be conscious of it. The cackling of a hen always disturbs the male bird; and the drumming of a partridge excites the wrath and jealousy of every male of his own species that hears it, and frequently ends in a fight. Birds in general utter very similar cries when they are captured; and it is remarkable that courageous animals make a louder noise, when they are seized, than those of a timid species. There is no quadruped more courageous than the hog in its wild state. The instinct of this animal causes the whole herd to run to the protection of any one of its species when it is in danger, and the instinct of self-preservation causes the victim, when captured, to yell and make the loudest outcries. Sheep, on the contrary, when one of their number is attacked, do not turn to protect it, but run for their lives. The poor creature, therefore, though it makes some moans, utters no loud cries, which would fail to bring its fellows to its aid. Nature has therefore given to the sheep no propensity to disturb the forest with their yells, which would be of no avail to them.

Birds in general are more resolute in defending any one of their number, when attacked, than quadrupeds, and are consequently more vociferous when they fall into the dutches of a foe. But there are exceptions. I never saw a pigeon fly to the defense of another pigeon. When one is seized, the others fly about and show some interest and alarm, but make no attempts to relieve it. In accordance with my theory, a dove, when captured, makes but little noise, resembling the sheep in this particular. Almost all the gallinaceous birds, which utter the loudest screams when taken, are ready to risk their lives in behalf of any of their species. Indeed, it would not be far from the truth to say that the courage of any species of animals, at least of those which are gregarious, may be estimated as in a direct ratio to the noise they make when captured.

In the New England States there is no bird that sings regularly in the winter; but certain species may be beard occasionally in any month of the year. On the first day of October, 1876, I heard song sparrows in several different places, and a warbling vireo in the grounds near the Harvard Museum; and I once heard, during remarkably pleasant weather, a purple finch singing loudly on the 18th of February. Great Britain has several winter songsters; but the inhabitants of New England would be surprised to hear the song of a wild bird after the first day of November. But when the autumn leaves are whirling around us, the lively call of the chickadee, the twitter of goldfinches, the scream of jays, and the shrill voices of woodpeckers are hardly less agreeable than the melodies of June.

Among the enlivenersof winter I must not omit to mention the English sparrows, which have been very generally naturalized in this country. I looked upon the little strangers with great jealousy on their first appearance, and I cannot say that I am at present reconciled to them, except as an evil, like the white-weed and the wood-wax, that cannot be extirpated. To all except very young persons their noisy chattering wants the charm of early association to make it agreeable. Their notes are harsh and deficient in character, being only a garrulous chirping that indicates neither cheerfulness nor passion. I have often wanted to silence them when their unmusical voices have prevented my listening to some little musician high up in the elms.

I can see no good reason why these birds were brought into this country, especially when it was well known that they were considered a pest in Europe; nor can I imagine what advantage was expected to accrue to the public from the introduction of a granivorous species that consume insects only during their breeding season. I should have some respect for the enthusiasm with which they were received, if they had been English robin redbreasts; and I still believe that if, before their importation, a similar enthusiasm had been awakened for the encouragement of native birds, several useful and interesting species might have been multiplied in every garden and orchard, and in all our public grounds.

As it happened, the popular enthusiasm was simply ludicrous. After our bluebirds, wrens, and martins had for many years diminished in numbers, from the want of boxes for their nests and homes, no sooner were these vulgar sparrows introduced than millions of boxes were supplied for their use, until every tree in our cities and their suburbs was deformed by them. When I first observed all this my indignation was such as I should feel if some sentimental person had introduced a breed of prolific wood-rats to multiply and take the place of our squirrels. I predicted that our native birds that nestle in boxes and bird-houses would soon be extirpated by the sparrows; for, being winter residents, they would preoccupy all the boxes that would otherwise be used by wrens, bluebirds, and other interesting species of our own land. This misfortune has not yet happened, at least to any great extent. The species which have been most severely annoyed by them are the little fly-catchers that are so musical in our elms and other roadside trees.

My prediction failed to come to pass, because the enthusiasm which greeted the new-comers induced our people to furnish a greater supply of boxes for the sparrows than their numbers required. Our native house birds, therefore, which had always been neglected, were now more fully accommodated than at any time since our provident aborigines supplied them with hollow gourds. Consequently, these interesting birds have multiplied since the advent of the sparrows. For a few summers past the numbers of wrens, bluebirds, and martins have sensibly increased, if my observations are correct, in Eastern Massachusetts. I still fear that, as the sparrows multiply, my prediction may be fulfilled, when the boxes will be only sufficient to house the sparrows.

Their presence is certainly a bar to the multiplication of several admired and important species of our small birds. This is the opinion of those who have had the best opportunities, combined with an accurate knowledge both of insects and birds, to make correct observations of their habits. The public should not overlook the fact that all our ornithologists entertain this opinion, and that there is not one who does not despise the sparrows as a pest. The little vireos, of which there are two species that make their homes in the elms by our roadsides in preference to their native wood, are exceedingly annoyed by the sparrows. They are entirely insectivorous, and are among the most useful birds that can be named. They are also charming songsters, and their singing season continues until the last week in August, after nearly all other singing birds are silent. Their notes are constant and delightful; but the sparrows allow them no peace, and will eventually drive them all away from our parks, gardens, and roadsides.

The horticultural services of the sparrows have been greatly overrated. Like almost all other species of small birds, they destroy a few canker-worms. If all the birds in the land fed exclusively on canker-worms during their season of depredation, they could not extirpate them. A hundred birds to every tree could hardly consume them. But no single species is known to make an entire meal of canker-worms. They all pick up a few, but never eat them greedily. The only times when these insect pests can be destroyed to any appreciable extent, by bird or man, are late in the autumn and early in the spring, when the perfect insects are crawling up the trees to deposit their eggs. But just at these favorable times, if my observation is correct, the sparrows do not touch them. They are seen then only on the highways, getting seeds from dirt heaps.

The greatest objection to the sparrows is not their direct agency in driving away our native birds. This is a trifle compared with the evil arising from their presence, which prevents our people from petting and encouraging our native species. There are several of these, some remaining with us all winter, that would multiply around our homes, and delight us with their notes and their interesting ways, if they should gain half the attention that has been given to the Sparrows.

To save our native house birds from their encroachments, it will be necessary to construct some of the boxes in such a a way as to exclude the sparrows. The holes should be made, in order to protect wrens and swallows, of just sufficient dimensions to admit these small birds, so that the sparrows, which are larger, cannot enter them. This expedient would not help the bluebirds or purple martins, which exceed the sparrows in size. But the bluebird is a bold, pugnacious little fellow, and would be able to keep possession of a box, if he should once obtain it. The same may be said of the purple martin. Yet I am not sure of the ability of either bird to eject a pair of sparrows.

I think all attentive observers must have seen that the English sparrows are surpassed by our native kindred species in alertness and activity, and that they are less sleek in their plumage and graceful in their shape. This is, in a measure, the result of their partial domestication.

But it is a fact that the seed-eaters in general are not so trim and beautiful in their form as the insectivorous birds. Let any one compare, for example, the English sparrow with the vireo, as these two birds stand in opposite extremes in all respects. Observe how cylindrical the vireo is in his shape, and how lithe and graceful in his movements. When he flies he moves without apparent effort, while the sparrow flits as if his feathers were not sufficiently compact, it is a pity that we have exposed these elegant and graceful birds and sweet singers to the danger of extermination by a race of European scavengers.

Wilson Flagg.