A Bit of Bird-Life

THE redwing blackbird is preëminently a bird of social tastes. Nearly the whole year he lives in a noisy crowd, calling, screaming, and singing from morning till night; at this time in his life his manners are of no particular interest. But in the spring, as to other birds, comes the mysterious impulse to leave the giddy throng, to retire to a quiet nook, to build a nest, and establish a family. During this pleasing episode in his ordinary history, his personality reveals itself; he is no longer simply a unit in a lively mob, but an individual with well - marked characteristics and tastes of his own, and he then becomes attractive to the student of bird ways. It is the redwing in domestic life, as the head of a family, that he comes before you now.

The blackbird nook is invariably the loveliest spot in a neighborhood, and is never hard to find, for with childlike ingenuousness he makes himself so conspicuous, and his business so apparent, that the dullest observer cannot fail to notice him. Long before you reach his vicinity you will hear his gleeful “ Conka-ree ! ” (or, more correctly, “ h’wa-keree ! ”) and as you approach, his loud “ Chack ! chack ! ” challenging your right to intrude, and demanding your business in his retreat. But draw near, even if, as sometimes happens, he grows belligerent and swoops down towards your face. You will find a clump of trees at the edge of the water, generally hedged in by low, thick-growing shrubs. Part the branches in defiance of his angry protests, stoop, and you shall step into a most charming spot, his chosen home. If in a park it will be a bit of wildness left as nature planned it, unfrequented and perfectly secluded, though perhaps not ten feet from a common walk. Within the thick shrouding bushes the ground is bare, or thinly clad with low shrubs, and tall trees completely shade the leafy temple, which is cool and roomy, and refreshing in its peculiar green light. One side borders the water, and there, low among the reeds, is doubtless the homestead so highly regarded, and so poorly concealed.

But though the place be lonely you shall not enjoy it in peace, for this anxious parent, the most fussy and restless of feathered folk, will not cease to scold and scream so long as you stay, running along the branches and eying you from every side. Should his mate be sitting, she will keep silent and show herself more wary than her spouse, but if not thus engaged, she will soon appear. She differs so greatly from him that you may not recognize her till she adds her volubility to the mêlée, and you perceive that her voice is exactly like his. She is smaller, and of an inconspicuous gray and brown color, which better fits her for her maternal duties; but her manner of carrying herself, her restlessness, and the expressive use of the tail betray her relationship.

The redwing himself is the most conspicuous object in the landscape. Shining black from the point of the bill to the tip of the toes, his color harmonizes with nothing in nature, and his goldfringed scarlet epaulets gleam through the trees like gems. Sit down quietly and watch him. Notwithstanding his “ society ” life, he has not the slightest repose of manner. He is incessantly in motion ; to stand still while you look at him is impossible to a blackbird. He will walk along a small branch in such a way that it takes a close look to see that he does not put one foot before the other. He really sidles, but holds his body in the direction he is moving, so that one is easily deceived in the matter.

Then he will jump heavily to the next bough and walk the length of that, jerking his tail at every step, and all the time scolding and screaming at the top of his voice, till you are sure the whole bird world will be notified of the presence of an inquisitive stranger, with suspicious manners.

Should the young be out, you will quickly be informed of the fact by the presence of the modest gray mother, who will appear, perhaps, with a mouthful of food, which, however, will not prevent her uttering the blackbird “Chack! chack ! ” She will earnestly resent your intrusion, hopping uneasily about the tree, anxious to carry her load to the nest, yet fearing to have you see her, till at length she will slip behind the trunk, and silently take wing from the further side, while her ingenuous spouse, perfectly confident of the success of her ruse, delivers a triumphant “ h’wa-kerēē.” Such childlike faith is not to be betrayed. You have not the heart to follow that troubled mother to the clump of low bushes where her treasure is hidden ; you are not here as a robber, or violator of homes, however small, but as a student of life. To-morrow you shall return and see the darlings of the redwing family out on the tree, which is much more satisfactory than to disturb the nest, and distress the owners of it.

If you keep still so long that the lively bird forgets your presence and becomes less noisy, you may see him sit down on a branch, to rest after his excitement, letting his tail hang straight down, and occasionally stretching out his long neck till the feathers stand apart, then swell out his throat and treat you to his song. If the hour is right you may see him bathe, and it is worth waiting for. He is exceedingly fond of water, and spatters and splashes with a good will; and though too careless a fellow to spend much time over his subsequent toilet, simply shaking himself violently and leaving the sun to complete the drying, yet his coat is bright and shining.

When the young family appears on the tree the spectacle is most amusing: the father, fussy as the celebrated “ hen with one chicken,” hopping and running over the branches, chattering all the time and occasionally offering a dainty morsel to one of the infants ; the mother, busy enough trying to fill the ever hungry mouths; and the clumsy youngsters themselves, as big as their mother and exactly like her in color, too restless to keep near each other, but sidling along the branches, and hopping awkwardly about the tree, so that the mother has to seek them in a new place every time she returns from her excursions for food. For several days the feeding goes on, till the nestlings are fully feathered and one cannot tell them from their mother ; and then some morning the student creeps into the blackbird nook, to find it strangely quiet and the whole family gone. It has probably quite broken up : the father has resumed his bachelor ways in the society of his kind, the full-grown young of the neighborhood enjoying life in their own fashion in a flock by themselves. The summer home-life of the blackbird is over, and you will seek him in vain in the nook. Henceforth it is the open country and the cornfields where he is to be found, under many names, but merry and voluble as ever, and here we will not follow him.

The noises a redwing blackbird can make are of great variety, more than one would suspect who has not studied him in confinement. The close acquaintance with all the sounds natural to a bird, and the emotions indicated by the different cries and calls, is perhaps the most useful knowledge to be gained by keeping him in captivity. The blackbird in the house has made every slightest sound familiar, and you never mistake him for any other, however far off or well concealed. The song of this bird has been variously characterized, but rarely appreciated. It is, in truth, when heard away from the crowd, a wild, rich strain, recalling the woods on long summer days, the delightful odor of fresh earth and strong vegetable growth. It is impossible to describe, but no bird’s song is more expressive of his life, or more suggestive of wild nature. It consists of two strains, each of which is often varied. The most commonly heard has been well represented by Gentry by the syllables “ h’wa-ker-ēē,” on an ascending scale. Heard nearer, however, this strain is found to consist always of four notes (one lower in the beginning), and often of six. If the ordinary notes are supposed to be do, mi, sol, do, beginning on low C, — which they nearly resemble, — the bird varies it by sometimes singing sol, mi, do, mi, sol, do, in the same octave, and sometimes by throwing in a tone between each of the original four. The whole is given with an indescribable thrill, and the final do is often a well-executed trill. The second strain is of similar notes, only in a minor key. If the tones cannot be said to be of sweet quality in themselves, it must be remembered that they are adapted for distant effects ; and at least they are clear, perfectly suited to the open air, and not unpleasing even in a room.

But the song is the smallest of the redwing s utterances. First is his familiar harsh “ Chack, chack ! ” expressing various emotions, being sometimes softened into “ Check ” and “ Chick,” and even, with closed bill, into a rich “ Chuck.” Besides this he has a shrill scream (it can be called nothing else) on a high key, a sharp, insect-like sound, and a rough aspirate when displeased, like the first sound of h. In addition to all these, he has one genuinely sweet, most musical note. It is a single call, which sounds like “ ee-u.” He gives it sometimes when flying, and in captivity when greatly enjoying anything. For instance, in bathing he will utter that note, and if one answers in a moderately close imitation, on the same key, he will repeat it. I have kept one saying it over for twenty times or more.

Poets and naturalists have exhausted adjectives in ridiculing the blackbird’s song, but the reasons for the peculiar discordance of a flock — in which only they seem to have been observed — are not far to seek. In the first place, when birds begin to moult, and their usually clear, decided notes break, crack, and fail miserably, nearly every one takes refuge in silence. If he cannot sing his best, he will not sing at all; and it is extremely ineresting to hear the gentle, low trials which he will give of his returning powers when this season is over, — whispered songs as it were, till he is sure he has recovered his voice, and can pour out the full, clear song in which he delights. The blackbird is the only exception that I know to this nearly universal habit of silence, and he is so brimming over with spirits and jollity that sing he must. So he is not discouraged though his attempted “ b’wa-ker-ēē ” ends on the first syllable in a crack, or choke, or even in a dismal squeal, as it sometimes does. He simply pauses a moment, as if to collect his energies, and then utters his whole song, every note clearly and well, as if to say, “ That was only a slip; you see I can sing yet.” Then again, his song needs, for full enjoyment, to be heard alone. While in the “ madding crowd ” of a flock of blackbirds, noisy and garrulous as a pack of school-children, the “ h’wa-ker-ēē ” of one is spoiled by the scream of another, and the chack, chacks of twenty more. Listen to one bird alone in his own chosen nook, and no song in the woods seems more appropriate to the place, more to breathe the very soul of wildness.

When this bird expresses his emotions in a house, the strain is a curious medley of all the sounds he can make, in rapid succession, as “ H’wa-ker-ēē! chack, chack ! (scream) ēē-u ! chack, chack! (scream) chick, chick ! ēē-u ! h’wa-ker-ēē ! (scream),” and so on for fifteen minutes without pause. His morning song is the “ h’wa-ker-ēē ” alone, at intervals of a minute or less. In a happy captivity he will sing thus for an hour, while yet the room is dark, and he has not touched food.

I spoke of the blackbird’s fondness for water: in a cage it is impossible to keep more than a quarter of an inch of water in his dish: it is simply irresistible. The first thing he does is to spatter as much out as he can, and then with every mouthful of food, before and after and in the middle of his eating, he wants more. Seeds he cracks over the dish, and picks the fragments from the top; of mocking-bird food he takes a beakful and deliberately drops it in the water, and eats the particles daintily as they float. He is the only bird I have ever seen pay particular attention to bathing his feet. The one I have will stand on the edge of his bathingdish, fill his beak, and pass it down over each toe in succession, letting the water flow over it, refilling as needed, and apparently scraping the whole length carefully. I have watched this very closely, while not three feet from him. The same bird learned in a few days to know his regular attendant, and while remaining for months quite wild on the approach of the gentlemen of the family, whom he saw every day, was never in the least afraid of me. From the first he ate from my fingers, and before he had been in the house a week, seeing one day a thrush standing on my knee and receiving meat from my hand, he came out of his cage, flew across the room, and alighted beside the thrush,— who instantly vacated his position,— and stood there as long as I fed him, showing no fear. A little later, when he became very ill, and so weak that he hesitated to descend his three perches for food because of his uncertain footing, he allowed me to put my hand in the cage and hold his dish up to him on the upper perch, when he would eat freely, and then, when I held up the water, drink also. For two or three days he ate in no other way, and I am confident I thus kept him alive while curing him of his ailment.

The blackbird has now lived with me eight months, and though his cage door is always open he seldom comes out, and when he does is very glad to get back. He is very observing; notices in a moment if I have anything for him to eat, and comes instantly to the side nearest to me, and calls till I offer him a bit of whatever it may be, when he descends to his beloved water-cup, tastes the morsel, and usually leaves it in one of his dishes. He had a strange experience a few months ago: he broke off the end of his bill. First the upper mandible appeared a quarter of an inch shorter than the lower, and he had great trouble in eating, though he sang as merrily as ever. In a day or two, while I was seeking, advice on the subject,— which, by the way, I did not get, for no person or book, that I could find, gave any light on such a catastrophe, — he broke off the lower one to match. Since then he is as happy as ever, disturbed by nothing except the singing of one of his neighbors, whom it seems to be the aim of his life to reduce to silence. If volume would do it, success would crown his efforts, but his opponent is a plucky little fellow, and refuses to be suppressed; and so for months the unequal rivalry has continued.

The redwing blackbird is never by any chance graceful. He walks about the floor like an old man with the gout, and he has a curious fashion of thrusting his bill into a dish and then opening it, as if to pry the seed or water apart. He does the same under the edge of a towel or newspaper on the floor.

One droll little exhibition of intelligenee was furnished by the blackbird and a thrush. The latter chose to alight beside the cage of the former, and attempt to pull things through the wires. The indignant owner came down to the corner nearest the intruder, and began to scold, “ Chack ! (scream) chack! (scream).” The thrush calmly went on with his occupation, on observing which the blackbird slightly raised the wing nearest the enemy, and quivered it while repeating the remonstrance. Finding the thrush not in the least disturbed, he resorted to more severe measures, and gave a violent peck between the wires, which settled the matter. The queer thing about the performance was that both birds would pause in their demonstrations every few seconds, and look over to where I sat. I pretended not to notice them, and then they would resume hostilities, acting exactly like two quarrelsome children, who look to see if they are observed. It was certainly an intelligent acknowledgment of my position as lawmaker, as well as a recognition of the possibility of my disapproval, and above all a guilty consciousness of wrongdoing.

Olive Thorne Miller.