Transcriber’s Note:
Title page added.
BIRDS
A MONTHLY SERIAL
ILLUSTRATED BY COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY
DESIGNED TO PROMOTE
KNOWLEDGE OF BIRD-LIFE
VOLUME II.
CHICAGO
Nature Study Publishing Company
copyright, 1897
by
Nature Study Publishing Co.
chicago.
BIRDS.
Illustrated by COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY.
BIRDS IN CAPTIVITY.
It was our intention in this article
to give a number of instances
of a pathetic nature concerning
the sufferings of the various
species of birds which it has
been, and still is, a habit with many
people to keep confined in cages
totally inadequate for any other purpose
than that of cruelty. The argument
that man has no moral right to
deprive an innocent creature of liberty
will always be met with indifference
by the majority of people, and an
appeal to their intelligence and
humanity will rarely prove effective.
To capture singing birds for any purpose
is, in many states, prohibited by
statute. But the law is violated.
Occasionally an example is made of
one or more transgressors, but as a
rule the officers of the law, whose
business it should be to prevent it,
manifest no interest whatever in its
execution. The bird trappers as well
know that it is against the law, but so
long as they are unmolested by the
police, they will continue the wholesale
trapping. A contemporary recently
said: “It seems strange that this
bird-catching industry should increase
so largely simultaneously with the
founding of the Illinois Audubon
Society. The good that that society
has done in checking the habit of
wearing birds in bonnets, seems to
have been fairly counterbalanced
by the increase in the number of
songsters captured for cage purposes.
These trappers choose the nesting
season as most favorable for their work,
and every pair of birds they catch
means the loss of an entire family in
the shape of a set of eggs or a nestful
of young left to perish slowly by
starvation.”
This is the way the trappers proceed.
They are nearly all Germans.
Bird snaring is a favorite occupation
in Germany and the fondness for the
cruel work was not left behind by the
emigrants. More’s the pity. These
fellows fairly swarm with their bird
limes and traps among the suburbs,
having an eye only to the birds of
brightest plumage and sweetest song.
“They use one of the innocents as a
bait to lure the others to a prison.”
“Two of the trappers,” says one who
watched them, “took their station at
the edge of an open field, skirted by a
growth of willows. Each had two
cage traps. The device was divided
into two parts by wires running
horizontally and parallel to the plane
of the floor. In the lower half of each
cage was a male American Goldfinch.
In the roof of the traps were two little
hinged doors, which turned backward
and upward, leaving an opening.
Inside the upper compartment of the
trap, and accessible through the doorway
in the roof, was a swinging perch.
The traps were placed on stumps
among the growth of thistles and dock
weed, while the trappers hid behind
the trees. The Goldfinches confined
[Pg 122]
in the lower sections of the traps had
been the victims of the trappers earlier
in the season, and the sight of their
familiar haunts, the sunlight, the
breeze, and the swaying willow
branches, where so often they had
perched and sung, caused them to
flutter about and to utter pathetically
the call note of their days of freedom.
It is upon this yearning for liberty and
its manifestation that the bird trappers
depend to secure more victims. No
sooner does the piping call go forth
from the golden throats of the little
prisoners, than a reply comes from the
thistle tops, far down the field. A
moment more and the traps are surrounded
with the black and yellow
beauties. The fact that one of their
own kind is within the curious little
house which confronts them seems to
send all their timidity to the winds
and they fairly fall over one another
in their endeavor to see what it all
means. Finally one finds the doorway
in the roof and drops upon the
perch within. Instantly the doors
close and a Goldfinch is a prisoner.”
Laurence Sterne alone, of sentimental
writers, has put in adequate
language something of the feeling
that should stir the heart of the
sympathetic, at least, on seeing the
unjust confinement of innocent birds.
The Starling, which is the subject of
his elevated sentiment, will appear in
an early number of Birds. Sterne
had just been soliloquizing somewhat
favorably of the Bastile, when a voice,
which he took to be that of a child,
complained “it could not get out.”
“I looked up and down the passage,
and seeing neither man, woman, nor
child, I went out without further
attention. In my return back through
the passage, I heard the same words
repeated twice over, and looking up, I
saw it was a Starling hung in a little
cage. ‘I can’t get out, I can’t get
out,’ said the Starling. I stood looking
at the Bird, and to every person
who came through the passage, it ran
fluttering to the side, towards which
they approached it, with the same
lamentation of its captivity. ‘I can’t
get out,’ said the Starling. ‘God help
thee!’ said I, ‘but I’ll let thee out,
cost what it will;’ so I turned about
the cage to get the door. It was
twisted and double-twisted so fast with
wire, there was no getting it open
without pulling the cage to pieces. I
took both hands to it. The bird flew
to the place where I was attempting
its deliverance, and thrusting his head
through the trellis, pressed his breast
against it as if impatient. ‘I fear,
poor creature,’ said I, ‘I can’t set thee
at liberty.’ ‘No,’ said the Starling, ‘I
can’t get out,’ ‘I can’t get out,’ said
the Starling. I vow I never had my
affections more tenderly awakened; or
do I remember an incident in my life
where the dissipated spirits, to which
my reason had been a bubble, were so
suddenly called home. Mechanical as
the notes were, yet so true in tune to
Nature were they chanted, that disguise
thyself as thou wilt, still, ‘Slavery,’
said I, ‘still thou art a bitter draught;
and though thousands in all ages have
been made to drink of thee, thou art no
less bitter on that account. No, thou
thrice sweet and gracious goddess
liberty, whose taste is grateful, and ever
will be so, till nature herself shall
change; no tint of woods can spot thy
snowy mantle.’”
The bird in his cage pursued Sterne
into his room, where he composed his
apostrophe to liberty. It would be
well indeed, if a sentiment could be
aroused which would prohibit
absolutely the caging of birds, as well
as their wanton destruction, and if the
children are taught that “tenderness
which is the charm of youth,” another
generation will see it accomplished.
—C. C. Marble.
blackburnian warbler.
From col. Chi. Acad. Sciences.
Copyrighted by
Nature Study Pub. Co., 1897, Chicago.
THE BLACKBURNIAN WARBLER.
F the children had had the naming
of birds we venture to say
that it would have been more
appropriately done, and “Blackburnian,”
as many other names
of Warblers, would have had no place
in literature. There are about seventy-five
well known Warblers, nearly all
with common names indicating the
most characteristic colors or habits, or
partly descriptive of the bird itself.
The common names of this beautiful
Warbler are Orange-throated Warbler
and Hemlock Warbler. Some one has
suggested that it should be called the
Torch Bird, for “half a dozen of them
as they flash about in the pines, raising
their wings and jerking their tails,
make the darkest shadows seem breaking
into little tongues of flame.”
The Orange-throat is only migratory
in Illinois, passing through in spring
and fall, its summer home being chiefly
if not wholly, to the northward, while
it passes the winter in Central America
and northern South America. It is
found in New York and in portions of
Massachusetts, frequenting the coniferous
forests, and building its nest in
bushes or small trees a few feet above
the ground. Dr. C. Hart Merriam
found a pair of these birds nesting in
a grove of large white pines in Lewis
County, New York. In the latter part
of May the female was observed building,
and on the second of June the
nest contained four fresh eggs of the
Warbler and one of the Cow bird.
The nest was saddled on the horizontal
limb about eight feet from the ground
and about ten feet from the trunk.
Nests have been found in pine trees in
Southern Michigan at an elevation of
forty feet. In all cases the nests are
placed high in hemlocks or pines,
which are the bird’s favorite resorts.
From all accounts the nests of this
species are elegantly and compactly
made, consisting of a densely woven
mass of spruce twigs, soft vegetable
down, rootlets, and fine shreds of bark.
The lining is often intermixed with
horse hairs and feathers. Four eggs
of greenish-white or very pale bluish-green,
speckled or spotted, have usually
been found in the nests.
The autumnal male Warblers resemble
the female. They have two white
bands instead of one; the black stripes
on the side are larger; under parts
yellowish; the throat yellowish, passing
into purer yellow behind. Few
of our birds are more beautiful than
the full plumaged male of this lovely
bird, whose glowing orange throat
renders it a conspicuous object among
the budding and blossoming branches
of the hemlocks. Chapman says, coming
in May, before the woods are fully
clad, he seems like some bright plumaged
tropical bird who has lost his
way and wandered to northern climes.
The summer is passed among the
higher branches in coniferous forests,
and in the early fall the bird returns
to surroundings which seem more in
keeping with its attire.
Mr. Minot describes the Blackburnian
Warbler’s summer song as resembling
the syllables wee-see-wee-see, while
in the spring its notes may be likened
to wee-see-wee-see, tsee, tsee, tsee, repeated,
the latter syllables being on ascending
scale, the very last shrill and fine.
THE LOST MATE.
Shine! Shine! Shine!
Pour down your warmth, great Sun!
While we bask—we two together.
Two together!
Winds blow south, or winds blow north,
Day come white, or night come black,
Home, or rivers and mountains from home,
Singing all time, minding no time,
If we two but keep together.
Till of a sudden,
May be killed, unknown to her mate,
One forenoon the she-bird crouched not on the nest,
Nor returned that afternoon, nor the next,
Nor ever appeared again.
And thence forward, all summer, in the sound of the sea,
And at night, under the full of moon, in calmer weather,
Over the hoarse surging of the sea,
Or flitting from briar to briar by day,
I saw, I heard at intervals, the remaining one.
Blow! blow! blow!
Blow up, sea-winds, along Paumanok’s shore!
I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me.
—Walt Whitman.
goldfinch.
From col. F. M. Woodruff.
Copyrighted by
Nature Study Pub. Co., 1897, Chicago.
THE AMERICAN GOLDFINCH.
“Look, Mamma, look!” cried
a little boy, as one day late in
June my mate and I alighted on
a thistle already going to seed.
“Such a lovely bird! How
jolly he looks, with that black
velvet hat drawn over his eyes!”
“That’s a Goldfinch,” replied
his mamma; “sometimes called
the Jolly Bird, the Thistle Bird,
the Wild Canary, and the Yellow
Bird. He belongs to the family
of Weed Warriors, and is very
useful.”
“He sings like a Canary,”
said Bobbie. “Just hear him
talking to that little brown bird
alongside of him.”
That was my mate, you see,
who is rather plain looking, so
to please him I sang my best
song, “Per-chic-o-ree, per-chic-o-ree.”
“That sounds a great deal
better,” said Bobbie; “because
it’s not sung by a little prisoner
behind cage bars, I guess.”
“It certainly is wilder and
more joyous,” said his mamma.
“He is very happy just now, for
he and his mate are preparing
for housekeeping. Later on, he
will shed his lemon-yellow coat,
and then you won’t be able to
tell him from his mate and little
ones.”
“How they are gobbling up
that thistle-down,” cried Bobbie.
“Just look!”
“Yes,” said his mamma, “the
fluff carries the seed, like a
sail to which the seed is
fastened. By eating the seed,
which otherwise would be carried
by the wind all over the
place, these birds do a great
amount of good. The down
they will use to line their
nests.”
“How I should like to peep
into their nest,” said Bobbie;
“just to peep, you know; not to
rob it of its eggs, as boys do
who are not well brought up.”
My mate and I were so pleased
at that, we flew off a little way,
chirping and chattering as we
went.
“Up and down, up and down,”
said Bobbie; “how prettily they fly.”
“Yes,” said his mamma; “that
is the way you can always tell a
Goldfinch when in the air. A
dip and a jerk, singing as he
flies.”
“What other seeds do they
eat, mamma?” presently asked
Bobbie.
“The seeds of the dandelion,
the sunflower, and wild grasses
generally. In the winter, when
these are not to be had, the poor
little fellows have a very hard
time. People with kind hearts,
scatter canary seed over their
lawns to the merry birds for their
summer songs, and for keeping
down the weeds.”
THE GOLDFINCH.
CCORDING to one intelligent
observer, the Finches are, in
Nature’s economy, entrusted
with the task of keeping
the weeds in subjection,
and the gay and elegant little Goldfinch
is probably one of the most useful,
for its food is found to consist, for
the greater part, of seeds most hurtful
to the works of man. “The charlock
that so often chokes his cereal crops is
partly kept in bounds by his vigilance,
and the dock, whose rank vegetation
would, if allowed to cast all its seeds,
spread barrenness around, is also one of
his store houses, and the rank grasses,
at their seeding time, are his chief
support.” Another writer, whose
study of this bird has been made with
care, calls our American Goldfinch one
of the loveliest of birds. With his
elegant plumage, his rhythmical, undulatory
flight, his beautiful song, and
his more beautiful soul, he ought to be
one of the best beloved, if not one of
the most famous; but he has never yet
had half his deserts. He is like the
Chickadee, and yet different. He is not
so extremely confiding, nor should I call
him merry. But he is always cheerful,
in spite of his so-called plaintive
note, from which he gets one of his
names, and always amiable. So far as
I know, he never utters a harsh sound;
even the young ones asking for food,
use only smooth, musical tones. During
the pairing season, his delight often
becomes rapturous. To see him then,
hovering and singing,—or, better still,
to see the devoted pair hovering
together, billing and singing,—is
enough to do even a cynic good. The
happy lovers! They have never read
it in a book, but it is written on their
hearts:
“The gentle law that each should be
The other’s heaven and harmony.”
In building his nest, the Goldfinch
uses much ingenuity, lichens and moss
being woven so deeply into the walls
that the whole surface is quite smooth.
Instead of choosing the forks of a
bough, this Finch likes to make its
nest near the end of a horizontal
branch, so that it moves about and
dances up and down as the branch is
swayed by the wind. It might be
thought that the eggs would be shaken
out by a tolerably sharp breeze, and
such would indeed be the case, were
they not kept in their place by the
form of the nest. On examination, it
will be seen to have the edge thickened
and slightly turned inward, so that
when the nest is tilted on one side by
the swaying of the bough, the eggs
are still retained within. It is lined
with vegetable down, and on this soft
bed repose five pretty eggs, white,
tinged with blue, and diversified with
small grayish purple spots.
A curious story is told of a caged
Goldfinch, which in pleasant weather
always hung in a window. One day,
hearing strange bird voices, the owner
looked up from her seat and saw a
Catbird trying to induce the Finch to
eat a worm it had brought for it. By
dint of coaxing and feeding the wild
bird, she finally induced it to come
often to the window, and one day,
as she sat on the porch, the Catbird
brought a berry and tried to
put it into her mouth. We have often
seen sparrows come to the window of
rooms where canaries were imprisoned,
but it has uniformly been to get food
and not to administer it. The Catbird
certainly thus expressed its gratitude.
chimney swift.
From col. Eugene Bliss.
Copyrighted by
Nature Study Pub. Co., 1897, Chicago.
THE CHIMNEY SWIFT.
HIEF POKAGON, of the
Pottawattamie Indians, in
an article in The Osprey,
writes delightfully of the
Chimney Swift, and we
quote a portion of it describing a
peculiar habit of the bird. The chief
was a youth when he made the observation,
and he writes in the second person:
“As you look, you see the head of
the young chief is turning slowly
around, watching something high in
air above the stream; you now begin
to look in the same direction, catching
glimpses every now and then, of the
segment of a wild revolving ring of
small unnumbered birds circling high
above the trees. Their twittering
notes and whizzing wings create a
musical, but wild, continued roar.
You now begin to realize he is
determined to understand all about
the feathered bees, as large as little
birds, the village boy had seen. The
circle continues to decrease in size,
but increases the revolution until all
the living, breathing ring swings over
the stream in the field of your vision,
and you begin to enquire what means
all this mighty ingathering of such
multitude of birds. The young chief
in admiration claps his hands, leaping
towards the stream. The twittering,
whizzing roar continues to increase;
the revolving circle fast assumes a
funnel shape, moving downward until
the point reaches the hollow in the
stub, pouring its living mass therein
until the last bird dropped out of
sight. Rejoicing in wonder and admiration,
the youth walks round the base
of the stub, listening to the rumbling
roar of fluttering wings within. Night
comes on, he wraps his blanket closer
about him, and lies down to rest until
the coming day, that he may witness
the swarming multitudes pass out in
early morning. But not until the
hour of midnight does he fall asleep,
nor does he wake until the dawn of
day, when, rising to his feet, he looks
upward to the skies. One by one the
stars disappear. The moon grows pale.
He listens. Last night’s familiar roar
rings in his ears. He now beholds
swarming from out the stub the
living, breathing mass, forming in
funnel shape, revolving like a top,
rising high in air, then sweeping outward
into a wide expanding ring, until
the myriads of birds are scattered
wide, like leaves before the whirlwind.”
And then what do they do? Open
the mouth of a swallow that has been
flying, and turn out the mass of small
flies and other insects that have been
collected there. The number packed
into its mouth is almost incredible,
for when relieved from the constant
pressure to which it is subjected, the
black heap begins to swell and enlarge,
until it attains nearly double
its former size.
Chimney Swallow is the name
usually applied to this Swift. The
habit of frequenting chimneys is a
recent one, and the substitution of
this modern artificial home for hollow
trees illustrates the readiness with
which it adapts itself to a change in
surroundings. In perching, they
cling to the side of the chimney, using
the spine-pointed tails for a support.
They are most active early in the
morning and late in the afternoon,
when one may hear their rolling
twitter as they course about overhead.
The question whether Chimney
Swifts break off twigs for their nests
with their feet is now being discussed
by ornithologists. Many curious and
interesting observations have been
made, and the momentous question
will no doubt in time be placed beyond
peradventure.
THE LARK.
Up with me! up with me into the clouds!
For thy song, Lark, is strong;
Up with me! Up with me into the clouds!
Singing, singing,
With clouds and sky about thee ringing.
Lift me, guide me till I find
That spot which seems so to thy mind.
I have walked through wildernesses dreary,
And to-day my heart is weary;
Had I now the wings of a Fairy
Up to thee would I fly.
There is madness about thee, and joy divine
In that song of thine;
Lift me, guide me high and high
To thy banqueting place in the sky.
—Wordsworth.
SHORE LARK.
F the variety of names by which
this Lark is known is any indication
of its popularity, its friends
must be indeed numerous.
Snow Lark, Snowbird, Prairie
Lark, Sky Lark, American Sky Lark,
Horned Lark, are a few of them.
There is only one American Species, so
far as known. It breeds in northeastern
North America and Greenland, wintering
in the United States. It also inhabits
northern portions of the old world.
The common name is derived from the
tufts of black feathers over each ear,
which the birds have the power of erecting
at will like the so-called horns of
some owls.
In the Eastern States, during the
winter months, flocks of Horned Larks,
varying in size from a dozen to those
of a hundred or more, may be seen
frequenting open plains, old fields, dry
shores of bays, and the banks of rivers.
According to Davie, as there are a
number of geographical varieties of the
Horned Lark, the greatest uncertainty
has always attended their identification
even by experts, and the breeding and
winter ranges of the various subspecies
do not yet seem to be clearly
defined.
Audubon found this species on the
low, mossy and sheltered hills along
the dreary coast of Labrador. In the
midst of the mosses and lichens that
covered the rocks the bird imbedded its
nest, composed of fine grasses, arranged
in a circular form and lined with the
feathers of grouse and other birds.
Chapman says these Larks take
wing with a sharp, whistled note, and
seek fresh fields or, hesitating, finally
swing about and return to near the
spot from which they were flushed.
They are sometimes found associated
with Snowflakes. The pinkish grey
coloring is very beautiful, but in the
Middle and Eastern States this bird is
rarely seen in his spring garb, says an
observer, and his winter plumage lacks
the vivid contrasts and prime color.
As a singer the Shore Lark is not to
be despised, especially in his nesting
haunts. He has a habit of singing as
he soars in the air, after the manner
of the European Skylark.
horned lark.
From col. F. M. Woodruff.
Copyrighted by
Nature Study Pub. Co., 1897, Chicago.
THE YELLOW-BELLIED SAPSUCKER.
When the veins of the birch overflow in the spring,
Then I sharpen my bill and make the woods ring,
Till forth gushes—rewarding my tap, tap, tap!
The food of us Suckers—the rich, juicy sap.
—C. C. M.
ANY wild birds run up
and down trees, and it
seems to make little difference
which end up
they are temporarily,
skirmishing ever to the right and left,
whacking the bark with their bills,
then quiet a brief moment, and again
skirmishing around the tree. Sometimes
an apple tree, says a recent
writer, will have a perfect circle, not
seldom several rings or holes round
the tree—holes as large as a buck
shot. The little skirmisher makes
these holes, and the farmer calls it a
Sapsucker. And such it is. Dr.
Coues, however, says it is not a bird,
handsome as it is, that you would care
to have come in great numbers to your
garden or orchard, for he eats the sap
that leaks out through the holes he
makes in the trees. When a great
many holes have been bored near
together, the bark loosens and peels
off, so that the tree is likely to die.
The Sapsucker also eats the soft inner
bark which is between the rough outside
bark and the hard heart-wood of
the tree, which is very harmful.
Nevertheless the bird does much good
in destroying insects which gather to
feed on the oozing sap. It sweeps
them up in its tongue, which is not
barbed, like that of other woodpeckers,
but has a little brush on the end of it.
It lacks the long, extensile tongue
which enables the other species to
probe the winding galleries of wood-eating
larvæ.
Mr. William Brewster states that
throughout the White Mountains of
New Hampshire, and in most sections
of Northern Maine, the Yellow-Bellied
Woodpeckers outnumber all the other
species in the summer season. Their
favorite nesting sites are large dead
birches, and a decided preference is
manifested for the vicinity of water,
though some nests occur in the interior
of woods. The average height
of the nesting hole from the ground is
about forty feet. Many of the nests
are gourd-like in shape, with the ends
very smoothly and evenly chiseled,
the average depth being about fourteen
inches. The labors of excavating
the nest and those of rearing the
young are shared by both sexes.
While this Sapsucker is a winter resident
in most portions of Illinois, and
may breed sparingly in the extreme
northern portion, no record of it has
been found.
A walk in one of our extensive
parks is nearly always rewarded by
the sight of one or more of these
interesting and attractive birds. They
are usually so industriously engaged
that they seem to give little attention
to your presence, and hunt away,
tapping the bole of the tree, until
called elsewhere by some more promising
field of operations. Before taking
flight from one tree to another, they
stop the insect search and gaze inquisitively
toward their destination.
If two of them meet, there is often a
sudden stopping in the air, a twisting
upward and downward, followed by a
lively chase across the open to the top
of a dead tree, and then a sly peeping
round or over a limb, after the manner
of all Woodpeckers. A rapid
drumming with the bill on the tree,
branch or trunk, it is said, serves for a
love-song, and it has a screaming call note.
THE WARBLING VIREO.
HE Vireos are a family of
singers and are more often
heard than seen, but the
Warbler has a much more
musical voice, and of greater compass
than any other member of the family.
The song ripples like a brook, floating
down from the leafiest tree-tops. It
is not much to look at, being quite
plainly dressed in contrast with the
red-eyed cousin, the largest of the
Vireos. In nesting time it prefers
seclusion, though in the spring and
mid-summer, when the little ones have
flown, and nesting cares have ceased, it
frequents the garden, singing in the
elms and birches, and other tall trees.
It rambles as well through the foliage
of trees in open woodland, in parks,
and in those along the banks of
streams, where it diligently searches
the under side of leaves and branches
for insect life, “in that near-sighted
way peculiar to the tribe.” It is a
very stoic among birds, and seems
never surprised at anything, “even at
the loud report of a gun, with the shot
rattling about it in the branches, and,
if uninjured, it will stand for a moment
unconcerned, or move along, peering
on every side amongst the foliage,
warbling its tender, liquid strains.”
The nest of this species is like that
of the Red-eyed Vireo—a strong,
durable, basket-like fabric, made of
bark strips, lined with fine grasses.
It is suspended by the brim in slender,
horizontal forks of branches, at a great
height from the ground.
The Vireo is especially numerous
among the elms of Boston Common,
where at almost any hour of the day,
from early in the month of May, until
long after summer has gone, may be
heard the prolonged notes of the
Warbling species, which was an
especial favorite of Dr. Thomas M.
Brewer, author of “History of North
American Birds.” Its voice is not
powerful, but its melody, it is said, is
flute-like and tender, and its song is
perhaps characterized more by its air
of happy contentment, than by any
other special quality. No writer on
birds has grown enthusiastic on the
subject, and Bradford Torrey alone
among them does it scant justice,
when he says this Vireo “is admirably
named; there is no one of our
birds that can more properly be said
to warble. He keeps further from the
ground than the others, and shows a
strong preference for the elms of
village streets, out of which his
delicious music drops upon the ears of
all passers underneath. How many of
them hear it and thank the singer, is
unhappily another question.”
yellow-bellied sapsucker.
From col. F. M. Woodruff.
Copyrighted by
Nature Study Pub. Co., 1897, Chicago.
warbling vireo.
From col. F. M. Woodruff.
Copyrighted by
Nature Study Pub. Co., 1897, Chicago.
THE SAPSUCKER.
My Dear Young Friends:
During the long summer days,
when you were enjoying golden
vacation hours, I often took a
peep at you from some dead tree
limb or the side of a hemlock or
beech. You saw me, perhaps,
and were surprised at my
courage; for other small birds
whose voices you heard, but
whose tiny bodies escaped your
young eyes, appeared very timid
in comparison.
But I am not so brave, after
all, and know full well when my
red hat is in danger. I am a
good flyer, too, and can soon put
a wide space between myself
and certain wicked boys, who, I
hope, by next vacation time will
have learned so much about us
that they will love every little
feathered creature, and not seek
to do them any harm.
Can you guess why I have
such a queer name? I really
ought to be popular in Illinois,
for they tell me it is called the
Sucker State, and that the people
are proud of it. Well, I am
called Sapsucker because much,
if not most, of my food consists
of the secret juices which flow
through the entire body of the
tree which you probably saw
me running up and down and
around. But you saw me, you
say, very often on dead branches
of trees, and surely they had no
sap in them? No, but if you
will look closely into my actions,
you will see that I destroy many
insects which drill their way
into the wood and deposit their
eggs. In my opinion, I do far
more good than harm, though
you will find some people who
think otherwise.
Then, again, if there is utility
in beauty, surely I am a benefit
to every one. One day I heard
a lady say that she never saw
my head pop up from behind an
old stump without bursting into
laughter, I looked so funny.
Now I took that as a compliment;
for to give pleasure to
those around us, I have heard,
is one of our highest duties.
Next summer when you seek
the pleasant places where I
dwell,—in the old deadening
where the trees wear girdles
around them; in the open groves,
where I flit from tree to tree; in
the deep wooded districts,
whence one hears the tinkling
ripple of running waters, you
may, if good and gentle, see pop
up behind a stump the red hat of
Sapsucker.
THE WOOD PEWEE.
The listening Dryads hushed the woods;
The boughs were thick, and thin and few
The golden ribbons fluttering through;
Their sun-embroidered leafy hoods
The lindens lifted to the blue;
Only a little forest-brook
The farthest hem of silence shook;
When in the hollow shades I heard—
Was it a spirit or a bird?
Or, strayed from Eden, desolate,
Some Peri calling to her mate,
Whom nevermore her mate would cheer?
“Pe-ri! Pe-ri! Peer!”
To trace it in its green retreat
I sought among the boughs in vain;
And followed still the wandering strain
So melancholy and so sweet,
The dim-eyed violets yearned with pain.
Long drawn and clear its closes were—
As if the hand of Music through
The sombre robe of Silence drew
A thread of golden gossamer;
So pure a flute the fairy blue.
Like beggared princes of the wood,
In silver rags the birches stood;
The hemlocks, lordly counselors,
Were dumb; the sturdy servitors,
In beechen jackets patched and gray,
Seemed waiting spellbound all the day
That low, entrancing note to hear—
“Pe-wee! Pe-wee! Peer!”
“Dear bird,” I said, “what is thy name?”
And thrice the mournful answer came,
So faint and far, and yet so near,
“Pe-wee! Pe-wee! Peer!”
—J. T. Trowbridge.
wood pewee.
From col. Chi. Acad. Sciences.
Copyrighted by
Nature Study Pub. Co., 1897, Chicago.
THE WOOD PEWEE.
I am called the Wood Pewee,
but I don’t always stay in the
woods. If you have an orchard
or a nice garden, you will hear
me singing there in June.
People think I am not a happy
bird, because my song seems so
sad. They are very much mistaken.
I am just as happy as
any other little fellow dressed
in feathers, and can flirt and
flutter with the best of them.
Pewee! Pewee! Peer!
That is my song, and my mate
thinks it is beautiful. She is
never far away, and always
comes at my call.
Always, did I say?
No; one day, when we were
busy building our nest—which
is very pretty, almost as dainty
as that of our neighbor the
Humming Bird—she flew away
to quite a distance to find some
soft lining-stuff on which to lay
her eggs. I had been fetching
and carrying all day the lichens
to put round the nest, which was
hidden among the thick leaves
on the bough of a tree, and was
resting by the side of it.
Pewee! Pewee! Peer!
“She will hear that,” thought
I, and again I sang it as loud as
I could.
“I’ll bring that fellow down,
too,” said a boy, who surely had
never heard anything about our
happy, innocent lives, and as I
peered down at him, he flung a
large stone, which struck the
bough on which I sat. Oh, how
frightened I was, and how
quickly I flew away!
“He has killed my little
mate,” I thought. Still, I called
in my plaintive way, Pewee!
Pewee! Peer!
A faint, low cry led me to the
foot of a large tree, and there
on the ground lay my mate,
struggling to rise and fly to
me.
“I think my wing is broken,”
she sobbed. “Oh, that wicked,
wicked boy!”
I petted her with my broad,
flat beak, and after a while she
was able to fly with me to our
nest; but it was days and
days before she was out of pain.
I am sure if that boy sees my
story in Birds, he will never give
such an innocent little creature
misery again.
I dress plainly, in a coat of
olive and brown, and they do
say my manners are stiff and
abrupt.
But my voice is very sweet, and
there is something about it which
makes people say: “Dear little
bird, sad little bird! what may
your name be?”
Then I answer:
Pewee! Pewee! Peer!
THE WOOD PEWEE.
LTHOUGH one of the most
abundant species, common
all over the United States,
the retiring habits, plainness
of dress, and quiet
manners of this little bird have caused
it to be comparatively little known.
Dr. Brewer says that if noticed at all,
it is generally confounded with the
common Pewee, or Phoebe bird,
though a little observation is sufficient
to show how very distinct they are.
The Wood Pewee will sit almost
motionless for many minutes in an
erect position, on some dead twig or
other prominent perch, patiently
watching for its insect prey. While
its position is apparently so fixed,
however, its eyes are constantly on the
alert, and close watching will show
that the bird now and then turns its
head as its glance follows the course
of some distant insect, while anon the
feathers of the crown are raised, so as
to form a sort of blunt pyramidal
crest. This sentinel-like attitude of
the Wood Pewee is in marked contrast
to the restless motion of the Phoebe,
who, even if perched, keeps its tail
constantly in motion, while the bird
itself seldom remains long in a fixed
position. The notes of the two species
(see August Birds) are as different as
their habits, those of the Wood
Pewee being peculiarly plaintive—a
sort of wailing pe-e-e-e-i, wee, the first
syllable emphasized and long drawn
out, and the tone, a clear, plaintive,
wiry whistle, strikingly different from
the cheerful, emphatic notes of the
true Pewee.
The Wood Pewee, like all of its
family, is an expert catcher of insects,
even the most minute, and has a
remarkably quick perception of their
near presence, even when the light of
day has nearly gone and in the deep
gloom of the thick woods. Dr. Brewer
describes it as taking its station at the
end of a low dead limb, from which
it darts out in quest of insects, sometimes
for a single individual, which it
seizes with a sharp snap of its bill;
and, frequently meeting insect after
insect, it keeps up a constant snapping
sound as it passes on, and finally returns
to its post to resume its watch. While
watching it occasionally twitters, with
a quivering movement of the head and
tail, uttering a feeble call-note, sounding
like pee-e.
The nest of the Wood Pewee, which
is always “saddled” and securely
attached to a rather stout branch,
usually lichen-covered, is said to be
one of the most elegant examples of
bird architecture. From beneath it
so much resembles a natural portion
of the limb, but for its betrayal by the
owner, it would seldom be discovered.
It is saucer-shaped, with thick walls,
and the whole exterior is a beautiful
“mosaic” of green, gray, and glaucous
lichen. The eggs are a rich delicate
cream color, ornamented by a “wreath”
round the larger end of madder-brown,
purple, and lilac spots.
The Wood Pewee has many admirers,
a more interesting creature to
watch while feeding being hard to
imagine. Often you will find him in
the parks. Sitting in some quiet,
shady spot, if you wait, he will soon
show himself as he darts from the
fence post not far away, to return to it
time after time with, possibly, the
very insect that has been buzzing
about your face and made you
miserable. His movements are so
quick that even the fly cannot elude
him.
And to some he is pleasant as a
companion. One who loves birds
once saw this Flycatcher flying in a
circle and repeating breathlessly his
emphatic chebec. “He sang on the
wing, and I have never heard notes
which seemed more expressive of happiness.”
snow bunting.
From col. F. M. Woodruff.
Copyrighted by
Nature Study Pub. Co., 1897, Chicago.
THE SNOWFLAKE.
Bobbie didn’t want to go to
school that morning, and he looked
very cheerfully out upon the
cloudy sky and falling flakes
of snow, pretending to shiver a
little when the angry gusts of
wind blew the snow sharply into
people’s faces.
“I guess it’s better for little
boys like me to stay at home in
such weather as this, mamma,”
said he, all the while hoping the
snow would soon be deep enough
for him to ride down the hill
on his sled.
Before his mamma could reply
Bobbie gave a cry of delight
which drew her at once to the
window.
As from the snow clouds, on
bold and rapid wing, came
whirling down an immense flock
of birds, white, streaked with
gray and brown, chirping, calling
to one another, the whole flock
settling upon the open places in
a field in front of Bobbie’s house.
“Oh, the dear little things,”
said Bobbie, “they looked like
little white angels dropping out
of the clouds.”
“Those are our winter neighbors,”
said his mamma, “the
Snow Buntings or Snowflakes—they
visit us only in winter, their
summer homes being away up
North near the Arctic Circle in
the region of perpetual snow.”
“Do they build their nests in
trees?” asked Bobbie, who never
tired hearing about the birds.
“There are no trees in that
bleak region, only scrubby bushes,”
was the answer. “They
build a thick, deep grassy nest,
well lined with rabbit fur, or Snow
Owl feathers, which they tuck
under a ledge of rock or bunch
of grass.”
“They chirrup just like sparrows,”
reflected Bobbie, “can they sing?”
“They only sing when up in
their Northern home. There a
male Snowflake will sing as
merrily as his cousin the Goldfinch.”
“They look like Sparrows,
too,” said Bobbie, “only whiter
and softer, I think.”
“In the summer they are
nearly all white, the brown
edges having worn away, leaving
them pure black and white. They
are very shy and suspicious, and
at the least sound you will see
them all whirl aloft braving the
blasts of winter like little
heroes.”
“Well,” said Bobbie, after a
while, “if those little soft white
birds can go about in such
weather, I guess I can too,” and
in a few minutes with high rubber
boots, and a fur cap drawn
over his ears, off trudged Bobbie
like another little hero to school.
THE SNOWFLAKE.
HIS charming bird comes to us
at a time when his presence
may be truly welcomed and
appreciated, nearly all our
summer companions of the feathered
tribe having departed. He might not
inappropriately be named the great
Snowflake, though in winter he wears
a warm brown cloak, with black
stripes, brown collar, and a brown and
white vest. In summer, however, he
is snow white, with black on the back,
wings, and tail. He lives all over
northern North America, and in the
United States as far south as Georgia.
About the first of November, flocks
of Snowflakes may be seen arriving,
the males chanting a very low and
somewhat broken, but very pleasant
song. Some call him White Snowbird,
and Snow Bunting, according to
locality. The birds breed throughout
the Arctic regions of both continents,
the National Museum at Washington
possessing nests from the most northern
points of Alaska, (Point Barrow), and
from Labrador, as well as from various
intermediate localities.
These birds are famous seed eaters,
and are rarely found in trees. They
should be looked for on the ground, in
the air, for they are constantly seeking
new feeding grounds, in the barn-yard,
or about the hay stack, where seeds
are plentiful. They also nest on the
ground, building a deep, grassy nest,
lined with rabbit fur or feathers, under
a projecting ledge of rock or thick
bunch of grass. It seems curious that
few persons readily distinguish them
from their sparrow cousins, as they
have much more white about them
than any other color. Last November
multitudes of them invaded Washington
Park, settling on the ground to
feed, and flying up and scurrying away
to successive pastures of promise.
With their soft musical voices and
gentle manners, they were a pleasing
feature of the late Autumn landscape.
“Chill November’s surly blast” making
“field and forest bare,” had no
terrors for them, but rather spread
before them a feast of scattered seeds,
winnowed by it from nature’s ripened
abundance.
The Snowflakes disappear with the
melting of their namesake, the snow.
They are especially numerous in snowy
seasons, when flocks of sometimes a
thousand are seen in the old fields and
meadows. It is unusual, though it has
been known to breed in the Northern
States. In July, 1831, Audubon
found it nesting in the White Mountains,
and Dr. J. A. Allen notes a pair
as breeding near Springfield, Mass.
The Arctic regions are its nesting place
however, and these birds were probably
belated on their return migration.
The Snowflake and Shorelark are so
much alike in habits, that the two
species occasionally associate. Ernest
E. Thompson says: “Apparently
the Snowflakes get but little to eat,
but in reality they always find enough
to keep them in health and spirits,
and are as fat as butter balls.
In the mid-winter, in the far north,
when the thermometer showed thirty
degrees below zero, and the chill
blizzard was blowing on the plains, I
have seen this brave little bird gleefully
chasing his fellows, and pouring
out, as he flew, his sweet voluble song
with as much spirit as ever Skylark
has in the sunniest days of June.”
junco.
From col. F. M. Woodruff.
Copyrighted by
Nature Study Pub. Co., 1897, Chicago.
THE SLATE-COLORED JUNCO.
LACK SNOWBIRD, in
most of the United States
and in Ontario, where it
is a common resident,
and White Bill, are names more often
applied to this species of Sparrow than
the one of Junco, by which it is known
to ornithologists. It nests in the
mountains of northern Pennsylvania,
New York, and New England, and is
a resident throughout the year in northeastern
Ohio, and in Michigan. In all
probability, the Snowbird does not
breed, even occasionally, anywhere
within the limits of the state of
Illinois, though individuals may in
very rare instances be found several
weeks after others have departed for
the north, these having probably
received some injury which prevents
their migration. Prof. Forbes refers
to such an instance, which came under
his own observation. He saw on a
tree in the edge of a wood, in
the southern part of the state, an
adult specimen of the Junco, and
only one, which, he says, astonished
him.
Mr. William L. Kells states that in
Ontario this Junco selects a variety of
places for nesting sites, such as the upturned
roots of trees, crevices in banks,
under the sides of logs and stumps, a
cavity under broken sod, or in the
shelter of grass or other vegetation.
The nest is made of dry grasses, warmly
and smoothly lined with hair. The
bird generally begins to nest the first
week of May, and nests with eggs are
found as late as August. A nest of
the Junco was found on the rafters of
a barn in Connecticut.
Almost any time after the first of
October, little excursion parties of
Juncos may be looked for, and the
custom continues all winter long.
When you become acquainted with
him, as you surely will, during his
visit, you will like him more and more
for his cheerful habits. He will
come to your back door, and present
his little food petition, very
merrily indeed. He is very friendly
with the Chick-a-dee, and they are
often seen together about in the barn-yards,
and he even ventures within the
barn when seeds are frozen to the
ground.
“The Doctor,” in Citizen Bird, tells
this pretty story of his winter pets:
“My flock of Juncos were determined
to brave all weathers. First
they ate the seeds of all the weeds and
tall grasses that reached above the
snow, then they cleaned the honeysuckles
of their watery black berries.
When these were nearly gone, I began
to feed them every day with crumbs,
and they soon grew very tame. At
Christmas an ice storm came, and after
that the cold was bitter indeed. For
two days I did not see my birds; but on
the third day, in the afternoon, when
I was feeding the hens in the barn-yard,
a party of feeble, half-starved
Juncos, hardly able to fly, settled down
around me and began to pick at the
chicken food. I knew at a glance that
after a few hours more exposure all
the poor little birds would be dead. So
I shut up the hens and opened the
door of the straw-barn very wide,
scattered a quantity of meal and cracked
corn in a line on the floor, and crept
behind the door to watch. First one
bird hopped in and tasted the food; he
found it very good and evidently called
his brothers, for in a minute they all
went in and I closed the door upon
them. And I slept better that night,
because I knew that my birds were
comfortable. The next afternoon
they came back again. I kept them
at night in this way for several weeks,
and one afternoon several Snowflakes
came in with them.” (See page 150.)
THE KINGBIRD.
T is somewhat strange that there
should be little unity of opinion
concerning a bird as well known
as is this charming fellow, who
has at least one quality which
we all admire—courage. We will
quote a few of the opinions of well-known
observers as to whether his
other characteristics are admirable,
and let the reader form his own conclusion.
John Burroughs says of him: “The
exquisite of the family, and the braggart
of the orchard, is the Kingbird, a
bully that loves to strip the feathers
off its more timid neighbors like the
Bluebird, that feeds on the stingless
bees of the hive, the drones, and earns
the reputation of great boldness by
teasing large hawks, while it gives a
wide berth to the little ones.” Decidedly,
this classifies him with the
English Sparrow. But we will hear
Dr. Brewer: “The name, Kingbird,
is given it on the supposition that it
is superior to all other birds in the
reckless courage with which it will
maintain an unequal warfare. My
own observations lead me to the conclusion
that writers have somewhat
exaggerated the quarrelsome disposition
of this bird. I have never, or
very rarely, known it to molest or
attack any other birds than those
which its own instinct prompts it to
drive away in self-defense, such as
Hawks, Owls, Eagles, Crows, Jays,
Cuckoos, and Grackles.” That Dr.
Coues is a friend of the Kingbird, his
language amply proves: “The Kingbird
is not quarrelsome—simply very
lively. He is the very picture of dash
and daring in defending his home, and
when he is teaching his youngsters how
to fly. He is one of the best of neighbors,
and a brave soldier. An officer
of the guild of Sky Sweepers, also a
Ground Gleaner and Tree Trapper
killing robber-flies, ants, beetles, and
rose-bugs. A good friend to horses
and cattle, because he kills the terrible
gadflies. Eats a little fruit, but chiefly
wild varieties, and only now and then
a bee.” If you now have any difficulty
in making up your verdict, we
will present the testimony of one
other witness, who is, we think, an
original observer, as well as a delightful
writer, Bradford Torrey. He was
in the country. “Almost, I could
have believed myself in Eden,” he
says. “But, alas, even the birds
themselves were long since shut out
of that garden of innocence, and as I
started back toward the village a
Crow went hurrying past me, with a
Kingbird in hot pursuit. The latter
was more fortunate than usual, or
more plucky, actually alighting on
the Crow’s back, and riding for some
distance. I could not distinguish his
motions—he was too far away for
that—but I wished him joy of his
victory, and grace to improve it to the
full. For it is scandalous that a bird
of the Crow’s cloth should be a thief;
and so, although I reckon him among
my friends—in truth, because I do so—I
am always able to take it patiently
when I see him chastised for his
fault.”
The Kingbird is a common bird in
Eastern United States, but is rare
west of the Rocky Mountains. It is
perhaps better known by the name of
Beebird or Bee-martin. The nest is
placed in an orchard or garden, or by
the roadside, on a horizontal bough or
in the fork at a moderate height;
sometimes in the top of the tallest
trees along streams. It is bulky,
ragged, and loose, but well capped and
brimmed, consisting of twigs, grasses,
rootlets, bits of vegetable down, and
wool firmly matted together, and lined
with feathers, hair, etc.
king bird.
From col. F. M. Woodruff.
Copyrighted by
Nature Study Pub. Co., 1897, Chicago.
THE KINGBIRD.
You think, my young friends,
because I am called Kingbird I
should be large and fine looking.
Well, when you come to read
about Kings in your history-book
you will find that size has
nothing to do with Kingliness.
I have heard, indeed, that some
of them were very puny little
fellows, in mind as well as in
body.
If it is courage that makes a
king then I have the right to be
called Kingbird. They say I
have a reckless sort of courage,
because I attack birds a great
deal larger than myself.
I would not call it courage to
attack anything smaller than
myself, would you? A big man
finds it easy to shoot a little bird
in the air; and a big boy does
not need to be brave to kill or
cripple some poor little animal
that crosses his path. He only
needs to be a coward to do that!
I only attack my enemies,—the
Hawks, Owls, Eagles, Crows,
Jays, and Cuckoos. They would
destroy my young family if I did
not drive them away. Mr. Crow
especially is a great thief. When
my mate is on her nest I keep
a sharp lookout, and when one
of my enemies approaches I give
a shrill cry, rise in the air, and
down I pounce on his back; I do
this more than once, and how I
make the feathers fly!
The little hawks and crows I
never attack, and yet they call
me a bully. Sometimes I do go
for a Song-bird or a Robin, but
only when they come too near my
nest. People wonder why I never
attack the cunning Catbird. I’ll
never tell them, you may be sure!
To what family do I belong?
To a large family called Flycatchers.
Because some Kings
are tyrants I suppose, they call
me the Tyrant Flycatcher. Look
for me next summer on top of a
wire fence or dead twig of a tree,
and watch me, every few minutes,
dash into the air, seize a
passing insect, and then fly back
to the same perch again.
Any other names? Yes, some
folks call me the Bee Bird or Bee
Martin. Once in awhile I change
my diet and do snap up a bee!
but it is always a drone, not a
honey-bee. Some ill-natured
people say I choose the drones
because they can’t sting, and
not because they are tramp bees
and will not work.
Sing? Yes, when my mate is
on her nest I please her with a
soft pretty song, at other times
my call-note is a piercing Kyrie-K-y-rie!
I live with you only
in the summer. When September
comes I fly away to a
warmer climate.
SUMMARY
Page 123.
BLACKBURNIAN WARBLER.—Dendroica blackburniæ.
Range—Eastern North America; breeds
from northern Minnesota and southern Maine
northward to Labrador and southward along
the Alleghenies to South Carolina; winters in
the tropics.
Nest—Of fine twigs and grasses, lined with
grasses and tendrils, in coniferous trees, ten to
forty feet up.
Eggs—Four, grayish white or bluish white,
distinctly and obscurely spotted, speckled, and
blotched with cinnamon brown or olive brown.
Page 128.
AMERICAN GOLDFINCH.—Spinus tristis.
Other names: “Yellow-bird,” “Thistle-bird.”
Range—Eastern North America; breeds
from South Carolina to southern Labrador;
winters from the northern United States to the
Gulf.
Nest—Externally, of fine grasses, strips of
bark and moss, thickly lined with thistle down;
in trees or bushes, five to thirty feet up.
Eggs—Three to six, pale bluish white.
Page 131.
CHIMNEY SWIFT.—Chætura pelagica.
Other name: “Chimney Swallow.”
Range—Eastern North America; breeds from
Florida to Labrador; winters in Central America.
Nest—A bracket-like basket of dead twigs
glued together with saliva, attached to the wall
of a chimney, generally about ten feet from the
top, by the gummy secretions of the bird’s
salivary glands.
Eggs—Four to six, white.
Page 135.
HORNED LARK.—Otocoris alpestris.
Other name: “Shore Lark.”
Range—Breeds in northern Europe, Greenland,
Newfoundland, Labrador, and Hudson Bay
region; southward in winter into eastern United
States to about latitude 35°.
Nest—Of grasses, on the ground.
Eggs—Three or four, pale bluish or greenish
white, minutely and evenly speckled with pale
grayish brown.
Page 140.
SAPSUCKER, YELLOW-BELLIED.—Sphyrapicus varius.
Range—Eastern North America; breeds from
Massachusetts northward, and winters from Virginia
to Central America.
Nest—About forty feet from the ground.
Eggs—Five to seven.
Page 141.
WARBLING VIREO.—Vireo gilvus. Other
name: “Yellow-throated Vireo.”
Range—North America; breeds as far north
as the Hudson Bay region; winters in the
tropics.
Nest—Pensile, of grasses and plant fibres,
firmly and smoothly interwoven, lined with fine
grasses, suspended from a forked branch eight
to forty feet up.
Eggs—Three or four, white, with a few specks
or spots of black umber, or rufous-brown, chiefly
about the larger end.
Page 146.
WOOD PEWEE.—Contopus Virens.
Range—Eastern North America; breeds from
Florida to Newfoundland; winters in Central
America.
Nest—Compact and symmetrical, of fine
grasses, rootlets and moss, thickly covered with
lichens, saddled on a limb, twenty to forty feet
up.
Eggs—Three or four, white, with a wreath of
distinct and obscure markings about the larger
end.
Page 150.
SNOWFLAKE.—Plectrophenax nivalis. Other
name: “Snow Bunting.”
Range—Northern parts of northern hemisphere,
breeding in the arctic regions; in North
America, south in Winter into the northern
United States, irregularly to Georgia, southern
Illinois, and Kansas.
Nest—Of grasses, rootlets, and moss, lined
with finer grasses and feathers, on the ground.
Eggs—Four to seven, pale bluish white,
thinly marked with umber or heavily spotted or
washed with rufous-brown.
Page 153.
JUNCO—Junco hyemalis. Other name:
“Snowbird.”
Range—North America; breeds from northern
Minnesota to northern New York and
southward along the summits of the Alleghenies
to Virginia; winters southward to the
Gulf States.
Nest—Of grasses, moss, and rootlets, lined
with fine grasses and long hairs, on or near the
ground.
Eggs—Four or five, white or bluish white,
finely or evenly speckled or spotted, sometimes
heavily blotched at the larger end with rufous-brown.
Page 158.
KINGBIRD.—Tyrannus tyrannus.
Range—North America north to New Brunswick
and Manitoba; rare west of the Rocky
Mountains; winters in Central and South
America.
Nest—Compact and symmetrical, of weed-stocks,
grasses, and moss, lined with plant
down, fine grasses, and rootlets, generally at the
end of a branch fifteen to twenty-five feet from
the ground.
Eggs—Three to five, white, spotted with
umber.