Birds of the Rockies
by Leander S. Keyser · English · Gutenberg #25973 · 421,874 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Birds of the Rockies
Author: Leander S. Keyser
Release date: July 5, 2008 [eBook #25973]
Most recently updated: January 3, 2021
Language: English
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BIRDS OF THE ROCKIES
by
LEANDER S. KEYSER
Author of "In Bird Land," Etc.
With Eight Full-page Plates (four in color)
by LOUIS AGASSIZ FUERTES; Many Illustrations
in the Text by BRUCE HORSFALL, and
Eight Views of Localities from Photographs
With a Complete Check-List
of Colorado Birds
[Illustration: PLATE I
WILLIAMSON'S SAPSUCKER _Sphyrapicus thyroideus_
(Figure on left, male; on right, female)]
[Illustration]
Chicago . A. C. McClurg and Co.
Nineteen Hundred and Two
Copyright
A. C. McClurg & Co.
1902
Published September 27, 1902
TO
KATHERINE
AND
THE BOYS
IN MEMORY OF MANY HAPPY DAYS
BOTH INDOORS AND OUT
CONTENTS
PAGE
UP AND DOWN THE HEIGHTS 19
INTRODUCTION TO SOME SPECIES 31
BALD PEAKS AND GREEN VALES 47
BIRDS OF THE ARID PLAIN 83
A PRETTY HUMMER 103
OVER THE DIVIDE AND BACK 117
A ROCKY MOUNTAIN LAKE 139
A BIRD MISCELLANY 149
PLAINS AND FOOTHILLS 177
RAMBLES ABOUT GEORGETOWN 197
HO! FOR GRAY'S PEAK! 223
PLEASANT OUTINGS 259
A NOTABLE QUARTETTE 285
CHECK-LIST OF COLORADO BIRDS 307
INDEX 349
ILLUSTRATIONS
FULL-PAGE PLATES
PLATE FACING PAGE
I. WILLIAMSON'S SAPSUCKER--_Sphyrapicus
thyroideus_ _Frontispiece_
II. GREEN-TAILED TOWHEE--_Pipilo chlorurus_;
SPURRED TOWHEE--_Pipilo megalonyx_ 47
III. LAZULI BUNTING--_Cyanospiza amoena_ 83
IV. LARK BUNTING--_Calamospiza melanocorys_ 139
V. LOUISIANA TANAGER--_Pyranga ludoviciana_ 177
VI. TOWNSEND'S SOLITAIRE--_Myiadestes townsendii_ 223
VII. RUDDY DUCK--_Erismatura rubida_ 259
VIII. BROWN-CAPPED LEUCOSTICTE--_Leucosticte australis_ 303
SCENIC AND TEXT ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
WHITE-CROWNED SPARROWS ("Their grass-lined nests
by the babbling mountain brook") 21
TURTLE DOVES ("Darting across the turbulent stream") 44
PIPITS ("Te-cheer! te-cheer!") 50
PIPITS ("Up over the Bottomless Pit") 51
WHITE-CROWNED SPARROW ("Dear Whittier") 55
RUBY-CROWNED KINGLET ("The singer elevated his crest
feathers") 65
DESERT HORNED LARKS ("They were plentiful in this parched
region") 84
HORNED LARK ("It was a dear little thing") 88
COYOTE ("Looking back to see whether he were being pursued") 100
ONE OF THE SEVEN LAKES 105
SUMMIT OF PIKE'S PEAK 111
"PIKE'S PEAK IN CLOUDLAND" 114
CLIFF-SWALLOWS ("On the rugged face of a cliff") 118
ROYAL GORGE 123
PINE SISKINS 128
WILLOW THRUSH 136
BREWER'S BLACKBIRDS ("An interesting place for bird study") 139
YELLOW-HEADED BLACKBIRDS ("There the youngsters
perched") 142
"FROM THEIR PLACE AMONG THE REEDS" 146
THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN JAY ("Seeking a covert in the
dense pineries when a storm sweeps down from the mountains") 152
RAINBOW FALLS 165
WATER-OUSEL ("Up, up, only a few inches from the dashing
current") 167
WATER-OUSEL ("Three hungry mouths which were opened wide to
receive the food") 171
"NO SNOWSTORM CAN DISCOURAGE HIM" 174
"THE DARK DOORWAY" 179
SONG SPARROW ("His songs are bubbling over still with melody
and glee") 194
CLEAR CREEK VALLEY 201
WESTERN ROBIN ("Out-pouring joy") 207
RED-NAPED SAPSUCKERS ("Chiselling grubs out of the bark") 211
PIGEON HAWK ("Watching for quarry") 214
"SOLO SINGING IN THE THRUSH REALM" 218
GRAY'S AND TORREY'S PEAKS 245
PANORAMA FROM GRAY'S PEAK--NORTHWEST 249
THISTLE BUTTERFLY 252
WESTERN WHITE 252
JUNCO ("Under a roof of green grass") 255
SOUTH PARK FROM KENOSHA HILL 265
MAGPIE AND WESTERN ROBINS ("They were hot on his trail") 271
VIOLET-GREEN SWALLOW ("Squatted on the dusty road and took a
sun-bath") 279
"'What bird is that? Its song is good,'
And eager eyes
Go peering through the dusky wood
In glad surprise;
Then late at night when by his fire
The traveller sits,
Watching the flame grow brighter, higher,
The sweet song flits
By snatches through his weary brain
To help him rest."
HELEN HUNT JACKSON: _The Way to Sing_.
BRIEF FOREWORD
With sincere pleasure the author would acknowledge the uniform courtesy
of editors and publishers in permitting him to reprint many of the
articles comprised in this volume, from the various periodicals in which
they first appeared.
He also desires to express his special indebtedness to Mr. Charles E.
Aiken, of Colorado Springs, Colorado, whose contributions to the
ornithology of the West have been of great scientific value, and to
whose large and varied collection of bird-skins the author had frequent
access for the purpose of settling difficult points in bird
identification. This obliging gentleman also spent many hours in
conversation with the writer, answering his numerous questions with the
intelligence of the scientifically trained observer. Lastly, he kindly
corrected some errors into which the author had inadvertently fallen.
While the area covered by the writer's personal observations may be
somewhat restricted, yet the scientific bird-list at the close of the
volume widens the field so as to include the entire avi-fauna of
Colorado so far as known to systematic students. Besides, constant
comparison has been made between the birds of the West and the allied
species and genera of our Central and Eastern States. For this reason
the range of the volume really extends from the Atlantic seaboard to the
parks, valleys, and plateaus beyond the Continental Divide.
L. S. K.
All are needed by each one;
Nothing is fair or good alone.
I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,
Singing at dawn on the alder bough;
I brought him home, in his nest, at even;
He sings the song, but it cheers not now,
For I did not bring home the river and sky;--
He sang to my ear,--they sang to my eye.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON: _Each and All_.
Not from his fellows only man may learn
Rights to compare and duties to discern;
All creatures and all objects, in degree,
Are friends and patrons of humanity.
There are to whom the garden, grove, and field
Perpetual lessons of forbearance yield;
Who would not lightly violate the grace
The lowliest flower possesses in its place;
Nor shorten the sweet life, too fugitive,
Which nothing less than infinite Power could give.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH: _Humanity_.
Sounds drop in visiting from everywhere--
The bluebird's and the robin's trill are there,
Their sweet liquidity diluted some
By dewy orchard spaces they have come.
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY: _A Child World_.
Even in the city, I
Am ever conscious of the sky;
A portion of its frame no less
Than in the open wilderness.
The stars are in my heart by night,
I sing beneath the opening light,
As envious of the bird; I live
Upon the payment, yet I give
My soul to every growing tree
That in the narrow ways I see.
My heart is in the blade of grass
Within the courtyard where I pass;
And the small, half-discovered cloud
Compels me till I cry aloud.
I am the wind that beats the walls
And wander trembling till it falls;
The snow, the summer rain am I,
In close communion with the sky.
PHILIP HENRY SAVAGE.
BIRDS OF THE ROCKIES
UP AND DOWN THE HEIGHTS
To study the birds from the level plains to the crests of the peaks
swimming in cloudland; to note the species that are peculiar to the
various altitudes, as well as those that range from the lower areas to
the alpine heights; to observe the behavior of all the birds encountered
in the West, and compare their habits, songs, and general deportment
with those of correlated species and genera in the East; to learn as
much as possible about the migratory movements up and down the mountains
as the seasons wax and wane,--surely that would be an inspiring prospect
to any student of the feathered fraternity. For many years one of the
writer's most cherished desires has been to investigate the bird life of
the Rocky Mountains. In the spring of 1899, and again in 1901, fortune
smiled upon him in the most genial way, and--in a mental state akin to
rapture, it must be confessed--he found himself rambling over the plains
and mesas and through the deep canyons, and clambering up the dizzy
heights, in search of winged rarities.
In this chapter attention will be called to a few general facts relative
to bird life in the Rockies, leaving the details for subsequent recital.
As might be expected, the towering elevations influence the movements of
the feathered tenants of the district. There is here what might be
called a vertical migration, aside from the usual pilgrimages north and
south which are known to the more level portions of North America. The
migratory journeys up and down the mountains occur with a regularity
that amounts to a system; yet so far as regards these movements each
species must be studied for itself, each having manners that are all its
own.
In regions of a comparatively low altitude many birds, as is well known,
hie to the far North to find the proper climatic conditions in which to
rear their broods and spend their summer vacation, some of them going to
the subarctic provinces and others beyond. How different among the
sublime heights of the Rockies! Here they are required to make a journey
of only a few miles, say from five to one hundred or slightly more,
according to the locality selected, up the defiles and canyons or over
the ridges, to find the conditions as to temperature, food, nesting
sites, etc., that are precisely to their taste. The wind blowing down to
their haunts from the snowy summits carries on its wings the same
keenness and invigoration that they would find if they went to British
America, where the breezes would descend from the regions of snow and
ice beyond the Arctic Circle.
[Illustration: _White-Crowned Sparrows_]
It will add a little spice of detail if we take a concrete case. There
is the handsome and lyrical white-crowned sparrow; in my native State,
Ohio, this bird is only a migrant, passing for the summer far up into
Canada to court his mate and rear his family. Now remember that Colorado
is in the same latitude as Ohio; but the Buckeye State, famous as it is
for furnishing presidents, has no lofty elevations, and therefore no
white-crowns as summer residents. However, Colorado may claim this
distinction, as well as that of producing gold and silver, and
furnishing some of the sublimest scenery on the earth; for on the side
of Pike's Peak, in a green, well-watered valley just below timber-line,
I was almost thrown into transports at finding the white-crowns,
listening to their rhythmic choruses, and discovering their grass-lined
nests by the side of the babbling mountain brook. Altitude accomplishes
for these birds what latitude does for their brothers and sisters of
eastern North America.
There is almost endless variety in the avi-faunal life of the Rockies.
Some species breed far above timber-line in the thickets that invade the
open valleys, or clamber far up the steep mountain sides. Others ascend
still higher, building their nests on the bald summits of the loftiest
peaks at an altitude of fourteen thousand feet and more, living all
summer long in an atmosphere that is as rare as it is refreshing and
pure. Among these alpine dwellers may be mentioned the brown-capped
leucostictes, which shall be accorded the attention they deserve in
another chapter. Then, there are species which have representatives both
on the plains and far up in the mountain parks and valleys, such as the
western robin, the western meadow-lark, and the mountain bluebird.
In this wonderful country there is to be observed every style of
migratory habit. A twofold migrating current must be noticed. While
there is a movement up and down the mountain heights, there is at the
same time a movement north and south, making the migratory system a
perfect network of lines of travel. Some species summer in the
mountains and winter on the plains; others summer in the mountains pass
down to the plains in the autumn, then wing their way farther south into
New Mexico, Mexico, Central America, and even South America, where they
spend the winter, reversing this order on their return to the north in
the spring; others simply pass through this region in their vernal and
autumnal pilgrimages, stopping for a short time, but spending neither
the summer nor the winter in this latitude; still others come down from
the remote north on the approach of autumn, and winter in this State,
either on the plains or in the sheltering ravines and forests of the
mountains, and then return to the north in the spring; and, lastly,
there are species that remain here all the year round, some of them in
the mountains, others on the plains, and others again in both
localities. A number of hardy birds--genuine feathered Norsemen--brave
the arctic winters of the upper mountain regions, fairly revelling in
the swirling snow-storms, and it must be a terrific gale indeed that
will drive them down from their favorite habitats toward the plains.
Does the avi-fauna of the Rocky Mountain district differ widely from
that of the Eastern States? The reply must be made in the affirmative.
Therefore the first work of the bird-student from the East will be that
of a tyro--the identification of species. For this purpose he must have
frequent recourse to the useful manuals of Coues and Ridgway, and to the
invaluable brochure of Professor Wells W. Cooke on the "Birds of
Colorado." In passing, it may be said that the last-named gentleman
might almost be called the Colorado Audubon or Wilson.
In studying the birds of the West, one should note that there are
western subspecies and varieties, which differ in some respects, though
not materially, from their eastern cousins; for instance, the western
robin, the western chipping sparrow, the western lark sparrow, and the
western nighthawk. Besides, intermediate forms are to be met with and
classified, the eastern types shading off in a very interesting process
into the western. It would be impossible for any one but a systematist
with the birds in hand to determine where the intermediate forms become
either typical easterners or typical westerners.
Most interesting of all to the rambler on avian lore intent is the fact
that there are many species and genera that are peculiar to the West,
and therefore new to him, keeping him constantly on the _qui vive_. In
Colorado you will look in vain for the common blue jay, so abundant in
all parts of the East; but you will be more than compensated by the
presence of seven other species of the jay household. The woodpeckers of
the West (with one exception) are different from those of the East, and
so are the flycatchers, the grosbeaks, the orioles, the tanagers, the
humming-birds, and many of the sparrows. Instead of the purple and
bronzed grackles (the latter are sometimes seen on the plains of
Colorado, but are not common), the Rockies boast of Brewer's blackbird,
whose habits are not as prosaic as his name would indicate. "Jim Crow"
shuns the mountains for reasons satisfactory to himself; not so the
magpie, the raven, and that mischief-maker, Clark's nutcracker. All of
which keeps the bird-lover from the East in an ecstasy of surprises
until he has become accustomed to his changed environment.
One cannot help falling into the speculative mood in view of the sharp
contrasts between the birds of the East and those of the West. Why does
the hardy and almost ubiquitous blue jay studiously avoid the western
plains and mountains? Why do not the magpie and the long-crested jay
come east? What is there that prevents the indigo-bird from taking up
residence in Colorado, where his pretty western cousin, the lazuli
finch, finds himself so much at home? Why is the yellow-shafted flicker
of the East replaced in the West by the red-shafted flicker? These
questions are more easily asked than answered. From the writer's present
home in eastern Kansas it is only six hundred miles to the foot of the
Rockies; yet the avi-fauna of eastern Kansas is much more like that of
the Eastern and New England States than that of the Colorado region.
Perhaps the reason is largely, if not chiefly, physiological. Evidently
there are birds that flourish best in a rare, dry atmosphere, while
others naturally thrive in an atmosphere that is denser and more humid.
The same is true of people. Many persons find the climate of Colorado
especially adapted to their needs; indeed, to certain classes of
invalids it is a veritable sanitarium. Others soon learn that it is
detrimental to their health. Mayhap the same laws obtain in the bird
realm.
The altitude of my home is eight hundred and eighty feet above
sea-level; that of Denver, Colorado, six thousand one hundred and sixty,
making a difference of over five thousand feet, which may account for
the absence of many eastern avian forms in the more elevated districts.
Some day the dissector of birds may find a real difference in the
physiological structure of the eastern and western meadow-larks. If so,
it is to be hoped he will at once publish his discoveries for the
satisfaction of all lovers of birds.
If one had time and opportunity, some intensely interesting experiments
might be tried. Suppose an eastern blue jay should be carried to the top
of Pike's Peak, or Gray's, and then set free, how would he fare? Would
the muscles and tendons of his wings have sufficient strength to bear
him up in the rarefied atmosphere? One may easily imagine that he would
go wabbling helplessly over the granite boulders, unable to lift himself
more than a few feet in the air, while the pipit and the leucosticte,
inured to the heights, would mount up to the sky and shout "Ha! ha!" in
good-natured raillery at the blue tenderfoot. And would the feathered
visitor feel a constriction in his chest and be compelled to gasp for
breath, as the human tourists invariably do? It is even doubtful whether
any eastern bird would be able to survive the changed meteorological
conditions, Nature having designed him for a different environment.
INTRODUCTION TO SOME SPECIES
It was night when I found lodgings in the picturesque village of
Manitou, nestling at the foot of the lower mountains that form the
portico to Pike's Peak. Early the next morning I was out for a stroll
along the bush-fringed mountain brook which had babbled me a serenade
all night. To my delight, the place was rife with birds, the first to
greet me being robins, catbirds, summer warblers, and warbling vireos,
all of which, being well known in the East, need no description, but are
mentioned here only to show the reader that some avian species are
common to both the East and the West.
But let me pause to pay a little tribute to the brave robin redbreast.
Of course, here he is called the "western robin." His distribution is an
interesting scientific fact. I found him everywhere--on the arid plains
and mesas, in the solemn pines of the deep gulches and passes, and among
the scraggy trees bordering on timber-line, over ten thousand feet above
sea-level. In Colorado the robins are designated as "western," forms by
the system-makers, but, even though called by a modified title, they
deport themselves, build their nests, and sing their "cheerily,
cheerily, cheer up," just as do their brothers and sisters of the land
toward the rising sun. If there is any difference, their songs are not
so loud and ringing, and their breasts not quite so ruddy as are those
of the eastern types. Perhaps the incessant sunshine of Colorado
bleaches out the tints somewhat.
But in my ante-breakfast stroll at Manitou I soon stumbled upon
feathered strangers. What was this little square-shouldered bird that
kept uttering a shrill scream, which he seemed to mistake for a song? It
was the western wood-pewee. Instead of piping the sweet, pensive
"Pe-e-e-o-we-e-e-e" of the woodland bird of the Eastern States, this
western swain persists in ringing the changes hour by hour upon that
piercing scream, which sounds more like a cry of anguish than a song. At
Buena Vista, where these birds are superabundant, their morning concerts
were positively painful. One thing must be said, however, in defence of
the western wood-pewee--he means well.
Another acquaintance of my morning saunter was the debonair Arkansas
goldfinch, which has received its bunglesome name, not from the State of
Arkansas, but from the Arkansas River, dashing down from the mountains
and flowing eastwardly through the southern part of Colorado. Most
nattily this little bird wears his black cap, his olive-green frock,
and his bright yellow vest. You will see at once that he dresses
differently from the American goldfinch, so well known in the East, and,
for that matter, just as well known on the plains of Colorado, where
both species dwell in harmony. There are some white markings on the
wings of _Spinus psaltria_ that give them a gauze-like appearance when
they are rapidly fluttered.
His song and some of his calls bear a close resemblance to those of the
common goldfinch, but he is by no means a mere duplicate of that bird;
he has an individuality of his own. While his flight is undulatory, the
waviness is not so deeply and distinctly marked; nor does he sing a
cheery cradle-song while swinging through the ether, although he often
utters a series of unmusical chirps. One of the most pleasingly pensive
sounds heard in my western rambles was the little coaxing call of this
bird, whistled mostly by the female, I think. No doubt it is the tender
love talk of a young wife or mother, which may account for its
surpassing sweetness.
Every lover of feathered kind is interested in what may be called
comparative ornithology, and therefore I wish to speak of another
western form and its eastern prototype--Bullock's oriole, which in
Colorado takes the place of the Baltimore oriole known east of the
plains all the way to the Atlantic coast. However, Bullock's is not
merely a variety or subspecies, but a well-defined species of the oriole
family, his scientific title being _Icterus bullocki_.
Like our familiar Lord Baltimore, he bravely bears black and orange; but
in _bullocki_ the latter color invades the sides of the neck, head, and
forehead, leaving only a small black bow for the throat and a narrow
black stripe running back over the crown and down the back of the neck;
whereas in _Icterus galbula_ the entire head and neck are black.
Brilliant as Bullock's oriole is, he does not seem to be anxious to
display his fineries, for he usually makes it a point to keep himself
ensconced behind a clump of foliage, so that, while you may hear a
desultory piping in the trees, apparently inviting your confidence, it
will be a long time before you can get more than a provoking glimpse of
the jolly piper himself. "My gorgeous apparel was not made for parade,"
seems to be his modest disclaimer.
He is quite a vocalist. Here is a quotation from my lead-pencil, dashes
and all: "Bullock's oriole--fine singer--voice stronger than orchard
oriole's--song not quite so well articulated or so elaborate, but louder
and more resonant--better singer than the Baltimore." It might be added
that Bullock's, like the orchard, but unlike the Baltimore, pipes a real
tune, with something of a theme running through its intermittent
outbursts. The plumage of the young bird undergoes some curious
changes, and what I took to be the year-old males seemed to be the most
spirited musicians.
Maurice Thompson's tribute to the Baltimore oriole will apply to that
bird's western kinsman. He calls him:--
"Athlete of the air--
Of fire and song a glowing core;"
and then adds, with tropical fervor:
"A hot flambeau on either wing
Rimples as you pass me by;
'T is seeing flame to hear you sing,
'T is hearing song to see you fly.
* * * * *
"When flowery hints foresay the berry,
On spray of haw and tuft of brier,
Then, wandering incendiary,
You set the maple swamps afire!"
Many nests of Bullock's oriole rewarded my slight search. They are
larger and less compactly woven than the Baltimore's, and have a woolly
appearance exteriorly, as if the down of the Cottonwood trees had been
wrought into the fabric. Out on the plains I counted four dangling
nests, old and new, on one small limb; but that, of course, was unusual,
there being only one small clump of trees within a radius of many
miles.
In the vicinity of Manitou many trips were taken by the zealous
pedestrian. Some of the dry, steep sides of the first range of mountains
were hard climbing, but it was necessary to make the effort in order to
discover their avian resources. One of the first birds met with on these
unpromising acclivities was the spurred towhee of the Rockies. In his
attire he closely resembles the towhee, or "chewink," of the East, but
has as an extra ornament a beautiful sprinkling of white on his back and
wings, which makes him look as if he had thrown a gauzy mantle of silver
over his shoulders.
But his song is different from our eastern towhee's. My notes say that
it is "a cross between the song of the chewink and that of dickcissel,"
and I shall stand by that assertion until I find good reason to disown
it--should that time ever come. The opening syllabication is like
dickcissel's; then follows a trill of no specially definable character.
There are times when he sings with more than his wonted force, and it is
then that his tune bears the strongest likeness to the eastern towhee's.
But his alarm-call! It is no "chewink" at all, but almost as close a
reproduction of a cat's mew as is the catbird's well-known call. Such
crosses and anomalies does this country produce!
On the arid mountain sides among the stunted bushes, cactus plants,
sand, and rocks, this quaint bird makes his home, coming down into the
valleys to drink at the tinkling brooks and trill his roundelays. Many,
many times, as I was following a deep fissure in the mountains, his
ditty came dripping down to me from some spot far up the steep mountain
side--a little cascade of song mingling with the cascades of the brooks.
The nests are usually placed under a bush on the sides of the mesas and
mountains.
And would you believe it? Colorado furnishes another towhee, though why
he should have been put into the Pipilo group by the ornithologists is
more than I can tell at this moment. He has no analogue in the East.
True, he is a bird of the bushes, running sometimes like a little deer
from one clump to another; but if you should see him mount a boulder or
a bush, and hear him sing his rich, theme-like, finely modulated song,
you would aver that he is closer kin to the thrushes or thrashers than
to the towhees. There is not the remotest suggestion of the towhee
minstrelsy in his prolonged and well-articulated melody. It would be
difficult to find a finer lyrist among the mountains.
But, hold! I have neglected to introduce this pretty Mozart of the West.
He is known by an offensive and inapt title--the green-tailed towhee.
Much more appropriately might he be called the chestnut-crowned towhee,
for his cope is rich chestnut, and the crest is often held erect, making
him look quite cavalier-like. It is the most conspicuous part of his
toilet. His upper parts are grayish-green, becoming slightly deeper
green on the tail, from which fact he derives his common name. His white
throat and chin are a further diagnostic mark. The bright yellow of the
edge of the wings, under coverts and axillaries is seldom seen, on
account of the extreme wariness of the bird.
In most of the dry and bushy places I found him at my elbow--or, rather,
some distance away, but in evidence by his mellifluous song. Let me
enumerate the localities in which I found my little favorite: Forty
miles out on the plain among some bushes of a shallow dip; among the
foothills about Colorado Springs and Manitou; on many of the open bushy
slopes along the cog-road leading to Pike's Peak, but never in the dark
ravines or thick timber; among the bushes just below timber-line on the
southern acclivity of the peak; everywhere around the village of Buena
Vista; about four miles below Leadville; and, lastly, beyond the range
at Red Cliff and Glenwood.[1]
[1] This list was greatly enlarged in my second trip to Colorado in
1901.
The song, besides its melodious quality, is full of expression. In this
respect it excels the liquid chansons of the mountain hermit thrush,
which is justly celebrated as a minstrel, but which does not rehearse a
well-defined theme. The towhee's song is sprightly and cheerful, wild
and free, has the swing of all outdoors, and is not pitched to a minor
key. It gives you the impression that a bird which sings so blithesome a
strain must surely be happy in his domestic relations.
Among the Rockies the black-headed grosbeak is much in evidence, and so
is his cheerful, good-tempered song, which is an exact counterpart of
the song of the rose-breasted grosbeak, his eastern kinsman. Neither the
rose-breast nor the cardinal is to be found in Colorado, but they are
replaced by the black-headed and blue grosbeaks, the former dwelling
among the lower mountains, the latter occurring along the streams of the
plains. Master black-head and his mate are partial to the scrub oaks for
nesting sites. I found one nest with four callow bantlings in it, but,
much to my grief and anger, at my next call it had been robbed of its
precious treasures. A few days later, not far from the same place, a
female was building a nest, and I am disposed to believe that she was
the mother whose children had been kidnapped.
Instead of the scarlet and summer tanagers, the Rocky Mountain region is
honored with that beautiful feathered gentleman, the Louisiana tanager,
most of whose plumage is rich, glossy yellow, relieved by black on the
wings, back, and tail; while his most conspicuous decoration is the
scarlet or crimson tinting of his head and throat, shading off into the
yellow of the breast. These colors form a picturesque combination,
especially if set against a background of green. The crimson staining
gives him the appearance of having washed his face in some bright-red
pigment, and like an awkward child, blotched his bosom with it in the
absence of a napkin.
So far as I could analyze it, there is no appreciable difference between
his lyrical performances and those of the scarlet tanager, both being a
kind of lazy, drawling song, that is slightly better than no bird music
at all. One nest was found without difficulty. It was placed on one of
the lower branches of a pine tree by the roadside at the entrance to
Engleman's Canyon. As a rule, the males are not excessively shy, as so
many of the Rocky Mountain birds are. The tanagers were seen far up in
the mountains, as well as among the foothills, and also at Red Cliff and
Glenwood on the western side of the Divide.
A unique character in feathers, one that is peculiar to the West, is the
magpie, who would attract notice wherever he should deign to live, being
a sort of grand sachem of the outdoor aviary. In some respects the
magpies are striking birds. In flight they present a peculiar
appearance; in fact, they closely resemble boys' kites with their long,
slender tails trailing in the breeze. I could not avoid the impression
that their tails were superfluous appendages, but no doubt they serve
the birds a useful purpose as rudders and balancing-poles. The magpie
presents a handsome picture as he swings through the air, the iridescent
black gleaming in the sun, beautifully set off with snowy-white
trimmings on both the upper and lower surfaces of the wings. On the
perch or on the wing he is an ornament to any landscape. As to his
voice--well, he is a genuine squawker. There is not, so far as I have
observed, a musical cord in his larynx,[2] and I am sure he does not
profess to be a musical genius, so that my criticism will do him no
injury. All the use he has for his voice seems to be to call his fellows
to a new-found banquet, or give warning of the approach of an interloper
upon his chosen preserves. His cry, if you climb up to his nest, is
quite pitiful, proving that he has real love for his offspring. Perhaps
the magpies have won their chief distinction as architects. Their nests
are really remarkable structures, sometimes as large as fair-sized
tubs, the framework composed of good-sized sticks, skilfully plaited
together, and the cup lined with grass and other soft material, making a
cosey nursery for the infantile magpies. Then the nest proper is roofed
over, and has an entrance to the apartment on either side. When you
examine the structure closely, you find that it fairly bristles with dry
twigs and sticks, and it is surprising how large some of the branches
are that are braided into the domicile. All but one of the many nests I
found were deserted, for my visit was made in June, and the birds, as a
rule, breed earlier than that month. Some were placed in bushes, some in
willow and cottonwood trees, and others in pines; and the birds
themselves were almost ubiquitous, being found on the plains, among the
foothills, and up in the mountains as far as the timber-line, not only
close to human neighborhoods, but also in the most inaccessible
solitudes.
[2] In this volume the author has made use of the terminology
usually employed in describing bird music. Hence such words as
"song," "chant," "vocal cords," etc., are of frequent occurrence. In
reality the writer's personal view is that the birds are whistlers,
pipers, fluters, and not vocalists, none of the sounds they produce
being real voice tones. The reader who may desire to go into this
matter somewhat technically is referred to Maurice Thompson's
chapter entitled "The Anatomy of Bird-Song" in his "Sylvan Secrets,"
and the author's article, "Are Birds Singers or Whistlers?" in "Our
Animal Friends" for June, 1901.
In one of my excursions along a stream below Colorado Springs, one nest
was found that was still occupied by the brooding bird. It was a bulky
affair, perhaps half as large as a bushel basket, placed in the crotch
of a tree about thirty feet from the ground. Within this commodious
structure was a globular apartment which constituted the nest proper.
Thus it was roofed over, and had an entrance at each side, so that the
bird could go into his house at one doorway and out at the other, the
room being too small to permit of his turning around in it. Thinking the
nest might be occupied, in a tentative way I tossed a small club up
among the branches, when to my surprise a magpie sprang out of the nest,
and, making no outcry, swung around among the trees, appearing quite
nervous and shy. When she saw me climbing the tree, she set up such a
heart-broken series of cries that I permitted sentiment to get the
better of me, and clambered down as fast as I could, rather than prolong
her distress. Since then I have greatly regretted my failure to climb up
to the nest and examine its contents, which might have been done without
the least injury to the owner's valuable treasures. A nestful of
magpie's eggs or bairns would have been a gratifying sight to my
bird-hungry eyes.
One bird which is familiar in the East as well as the West deserves
attention on account of its choice of haunts. I refer to the turtle
dove, which is much hardier than its mild and innocent looks would seem
to indicate. It may be remarked, in passing, that very few birds are
found in the deep canyons and gorges leading up to the higher localities;
but the doves seem to constitute the one exception to the rule; for I
saw them in some of the gloomiest defiles through which the train
scurried in crossing the mountains. For instance, in the canyon of the
Arkansas River many of them were seen from the car window, a pair just
beyond the Royal Gorge darting across the turbulent stream to the other
side. A number were also noticed in the darkest portions of the canyon of
the Grand River, where one would think not a living creature could coax
subsistence from the bare rocks and beetling cliffs. Turtle doves are so
plentiful in the West that their distribution over every available
feeding ground seems to be a matter of social and economic necessity.
[Illustration: "_Darting across the turbulent stream_"
_Turtle Doves_]
BALD PEAKS AND GREEN VALES
[Illustration: PLATE II
GREEN-TAILED TOWHEE--_Pipilo chlorurus_
(Male)
SPURRED TOWHEE--_Pipilo megalonyx_
(Male)]
One of my chief objects in visiting the Rockies was to ascend Pike's
Peak from Manitou, and make observations on the birds from the base to
the summit. A walk one afternoon up to the Halfway House and back--the
Halfway House is only about one-third of the way to the top--convinced
me that to climb the entire distance on foot would be a useless
expenditure of time and effort. An idea struck me: Why not ride up on
the cog-wheel train, and then walk down, going around by some of the
valleys and taking all the time needed for observations on the
avi-faunal tenantry? That was the plan pursued, and an excellent one it
proved.
When the puffing cog-wheel train landed me on the summit, I was fresh
and vigorous, and therefore in excellent condition physically and
mentally to enjoy the scenery and also to ride my hobby at will over the
realm of cloudland. The summit is a bald area of several acres, strewn
with immense fragments of granite, with not a spear of grass visible.
One of the signal-station men asked a friend who had just come up from
the plain, "Is there anything green down below? I'd give almost
anything to see a green patch of some kind." There was a yearning strain
in his tones that really struck me as pathetic. Here were visitors
revelling in the magnificence of the panorama, their pulses tingling and
their feelings in many cases too exalted for expression; but those whose
business or duty it was to remain on the summit day after day soon found
life growing monotonous, and longed to set their eyes on some patch of
verdure. To the visitors, however, who were in hale physical condition,
the panorama of snow-clad ranges and isolated peaks was almost
overwhelming. In the gorges and sheltered depressions of the old
mountain's sides large fields of snow still gleamed in the sun and
imparted to the air a frosty crispness.
When the crowd of tourists, after posing for their photographs, had
departed on the descending car, I walked out over the summit to see what
birds, if any, had selected an altitude of fourteen thousand one hundred
and forty-seven feet above sea-level for their summer home. Below me, to
the east, stretched the gray plains running off to the skyline, while
the foothills and lower mountains, which had previously appeared so high
and rugged and difficult of access, now seemed like ant-hills crouching
at the foot of the giant on whose crown I stood. Off to the southwest,
the west, and the northwest, the snowy ranges towered, iridescent in
the sunlight. In contemplating this vast, overawing scene, I almost
forgot my natural history, and wanted to feast my eyes for hours on its
ever-changing beauty; but presently I was brought back to a
consciousness of my special vocation by a sharp chirp. Was it a bird, or
only one of those playful little chipmunks that abound in the Rockies?
Directly there sounded out on the serene air another ringing chirp, this
time overhead, and, to my delight and surprise, a little bird swung over
the summit, then out over the edge of the cliff, and plunged down into
the fearsome abyss of the "Bottomless Pit." Other birds of the same
species soon followed his example, making it evident that this was not a
birdless region. Unable to identify the winged aeronauts, I clambered
about over the rocks of the summit for a while, then slowly made my way
down the southern declivity of the mountain for a short distance. Again
my ear was greeted with that loud, ringing chirp, and now the bird
uttering it obligingly alighted on a stone not too far away to be seen
distinctly through my binocular. Who was the little waif that had chosen
this sky-invading summit for its summer habitat? At first I mistook it
for a horned lark, and felt so sure my decision was correct that I did
not look at the bird as searchingly as I should have done, thereby
learning a valuable lesson in thoroughness. The error was corrected by
my friend, Mr. Charles E. Aiken, of Colorado Springs, who has been of
not a little service in determining and classifying the avian fauna of
Colorado. My new-found friend (the feathered one, I mean) was the
American pipit, which some years ago was known as the tit-lark.
[Illustration: _Pipits_
"_Te-cheer! Te-cheer!_"]
"Te-cheer! te-cheer! te-cheer!" (accent strong on the second syllable)
the birds exclaimed in half-petulant remonstrance at my intrusion as I
hobbled about over the rocks. Presently one of them darted up into the
air; up, up, up, he swung in a series of oblique leaps and circles, this
way and that, until he became a mere speck in the sky, and then
disappeared from sight in the cerulean depths beyond. All the while I
could hear his emphatic and rapidly repeated call, "Te-cheer! te-cheer!"
sifting down out of the blue canopy. How long he remained aloft in "his
watch-tower in the skies" I do not know, for one cannot well count
minutes in such exciting circumstances, but it seemed a long time. By
and by the call appeared to be coming nearer, and the little aeronaut
swept down with a swiftness that made my blood tingle, and alighted on a
rock as lightly as a snowflake. Afterwards a number of other pipits
performed the same aerial exploit. It was wonderful to see them rise
several hundred feet into the rarefied atmosphere over an abyss so deep
that it has been named the "Bottomless Pit."
[Illustration: _Pipits_
"_Up over the Bottomless Pit_"]
The pipits frequently flitted from rock to rock, teetering their slender
bodies like sandpipers, and chirping their disapproval of my presence.
They furnished some evidence of having begun the work of nest
construction, although no nests were found, as it was doubtless still
too early in the season. In some respects the pipits are extremely
interesting, for, while many of them breed in remote northern latitudes,
others select the loftiest summits of the Rockies for summer homes,
where they rear their broods and scour the alpine heights in search of
food. The following interesting facts relative to them in this alpine
country are gleaned from Professor Cooke's pamphlet on "The Birds of
Colorado":
In migration they are common throughout the State, but breed only on
the loftiest mountains. They arrive on the plains from the South
about the last of April, tarry for nearly a month, then hie to the
upper mountain parks, stopping there to spend the month of May. By
the first of June they have ascended above timber-line to their
summer home amid the treeless slopes and acclivities. Laying begins
early in July, as soon as the first grass is started. Most of the
nests are to be found at an elevation of twelve thousand to thirteen
thousand feet, the lowest known being one on Mount Audubon,
discovered on the third of July with fresh eggs. During the breeding
season these birds never descend below timber-line. The young birds
having left the nest, in August both old and young gather in flocks
and range over the bald mountain peaks in quest of such dainties as
are to the pipit taste. Some of them remain above timber-line until
October although most of them have by that time gone down into the
upper parks of the mountains. During this month they descend to the
plains, and in November return to their winter residence in the
South.
While watching the pipits, I had another surprise. On a small, grassy
area amid the rocks, about a hundred feet below the summit, a
white-crowned sparrow was hopping about on the ground, now leaping upon
a large stone, now creeping into an open space under the rocks, all the
while picking up some kind of seed or nut or insect. It was very
confiding, coming close to me, but vouchsafing neither song nor chirp.
Farther on I shall have more to say about these tuneful birds, but at
this point it is interesting to observe that they breed abundantly
among the mountains at a height of from eight thousand to eleven
thousand feet, while the highest nest known to explorers was twelve
thousand five hundred feet above the sea. One of Colorado's bird men has
noted the curious fact that they change their location between the first
and second broods--that is, in a certain park at an elevation of eight
thousand feet they breed abundantly in June, and then most of them leave
that region and become numerous among the stunted bushes above
timber-line, where they raise a second brood. It only remains to be
proved that the birds in both localities are the same individuals, which
is probable.
On a shoulder of the mountain below me, a flock of ravens alighted on
the ground, walked about awhile, uttered their hoarse croaks, and then
took their departure, apparently in sullen mood. I could not tell
whether they croaked "Nevermore!" or not.
Down the mountain side I clambered, occasionally picking a beautiful
blossom from the many brilliant-hued clusters and inhaling its
fragrance. Indeed, sometimes the breeze was laden with the aroma of
these flowers, and in places the slope looked like a cultivated garden.
The only birds seen that afternoon above timber-line were those already
mentioned. What do the birds find to eat in these treeless and shrubless
altitudes? There are many flies, some grasshoppers, bumble-bees,
beetles, and other insects, even in these arctic regions, dwelling among
the rocks and in the short grass below them watered by the melting
snows.
At about half-past four in the afternoon I reached the timber-line,
indicated by a few small, scattering pines and many thick clumps of
bushes. Suddenly a loud, melodious song brought me to a standstill. It
came from the bushes at the side of the trail. Although I turned aside
and sought diligently, I could not find the shy lyrist. Another song of
the same kind soon reached me from a distance. Farther down the path a
white-crowned sparrow appeared, courting his mate. With crown-feathers
and head and tail erect, he would glide to the top of a stone, then down
into the grass where his lady-love sat; up and down, up and down he
scuttled again and again. My approach put an end to the picturesque
little comedy. The lady scurried away into hiding, while the little
prince with the snow-white diadem mounted to the top of a bush and
whistled the very strain that had surprised me so a little while before,
farther up the slope. Yes, I had stumbled into the summer home of the
white-crowned sparrow, which on the Atlantic coast and the central
portions of the American continent breeds far in the North.
It was not long before I was regaled with a white-crown vesper concert.
From every part of the lonely valley the voices sounded. And what did
they say? "Oh, de-e-e-ar, de-e-ar, Whittier, Whittier," sometimes
adding, in low, caressing tones, "Dear Whittier"--one of the most
melodious tributes to the Quaker poet I have ever heard. Here I also saw
my first mountain bluebird, whose back and breast are wholly blue, there
being no rufous at all in his plumage. He was feeding a youngster
somewhere among the snags. A red-shafted flicker flew across the vale
and called, "Zwick-ah! zwick-ah!" and then pealed out his loud call just
like the eastern yellow-shafted high-holder. Why the Rocky Mountain
region changes the lining of the flicker's wings from gold to
crimson--who can tell? A robin--the western variety--sang his
"Cheerily," a short distance up the hollow, right at the boundary of the
timber-line.
[Illustration: "_Dear Whittier_"
_White-Crowned Sparrow_]
About half-past five I found myself a few hundred feet below timber-line
in the lone valley, which was already beginning to look shadowy and a
little uncanny, the tall ridges that leaped up at the right obscuring
the light of the declining sun. My purpose had been to find
accommodations at a mountaineer's cabin far down the valley, in the
neighborhood of the Seven Lakes; but I had tarried too long on the
mountain, absorbed in watching the birds, and the danger now was that,
if I ventured farther down the hollow, I should lose my way and be
compelled to spend the night alone in this deserted place. I am neither
very brave nor very cowardly; but, in any case, such a prospect was not
pleasing to contemplate. Besides, I was by no means sure of being able
to secure lodgings at the mountaineer's shanty, even if I should be able
to find it in the dark. There seemed to be only one thing to do--to
climb back to the signal station on the summit.
I turned about and began the ascent. How much steeper the acclivities
were than they had seemed to be when I came down! My limbs ached before
I had gone many rods, and my breath came short. Upward I toiled, and by
the time my trail reached the cog-road I was ready to drop from
exhaustion. Yet I had not gone more than a third of the way to the top.
I had had no supper, but was too weary even to crave food, my only
desire being to find some place wherein to rest. Night had now come, but
fortunately the moon shone brightly from a sky that was almost clear,
and I had no difficulty in following the road.
Wearily I began to climb up the steep cog-wheel track. Having trudged
around one curve, I came to a portion of the road that stretched
straight up before me for what seemed an almost interminable distance,
and, oh! the way looked so steep, almost as if it would tumble back upon
my head. Could I ever drag myself up to the next bend in the track? By
a prodigious effort I did this at last--it seemed "at last" to me, at
all events--and, lo! there gleamed before me another long stretch of
four steel rails.
My breath came shorter and shorter, until I was compelled to open my
mouth widely and gasp the cold, rarefied air, which, it seemed, would
not fill my chest with the needed oxygen. Sharp pains shot through my
lungs, especially in the extremities far down in the chest; my head and
eye-balls ached, and it seemed sometimes as if they would burst; my
limbs trembled with weakness, and I tottered and reeled like a drunken
man from side to side of the road, having to watch carefully lest I
might topple over the edge and meet with a serious accident. Still that
relentless track, with its quartette of steel rails, stretched steep
before me in the distance.
For the last half mile or more I was compelled to fling myself down upon
the track every few rods to rest and recover breath. Up, up, the road
climbed, until at length I reached the point where it ceases to swing
around the shoulders of the mountain, and ascends directly to the
summit. Here was the steepest climb of all. By throwing my weary frame
on the track at frequent intervals and resting for five minutes, taking
deep draughts of air between my parched lips, I at last came in sight of
the government building. It is neither a mansion nor a palace, not even
a cottage, but never before was I so glad to get a glimpse of a building
erected by human hands. It was past nine o'clock when I staggered up to
the door and rang the night bell, having spent more than three hours and
a half in climbing about two miles and a half. Too weary to sleep, I
tossed for hours on my bed. At last, however, "nature's sweet restorer"
came to my relief, and I slept the deep sleep of unconsciousness until
seven o'clock the next morning, allowing the sun to rise upon the Peak
without getting up to greet him. That omission may have been an
unpardonable sin, for one of the chief fads of visitors is to see the
sun rise from the Peak; but I must say in my defence that, in the first
place, I failed to wake up in time to witness the Day King's advent,
and, in a second place, being on bird lore intent rather than scenic
wonders, my principal need was to recruit my strength for the tramping
to be done during the day. The sequel proved that, for my special
purpose, I had chosen the wiser course.
By eight o'clock I had written a letter home, eaten a refreshing
breakfast, paying a dollar for it, and another for lodging, and was
starting down the mountain, surprised at the exhilaration I felt, in
view of my extreme exhaustion of the evening before. I naturally
expected to feel stiff and sore in every joint, languid and woe-be-gone;
but such was not the case. It is wonderful how soon one recovers
strength among these heights. How bracing is the cool mountain air, if
you breathe it deeply! As I began the descent, I whistled and
sang,--that is, I tried to. To be frank, it was all noise and no music,
but I must have some way of giving expression to the uplifted emotions
that filled my breast. Again and again I said to myself, "I'm so glad!
I'm so glad! I'm so glad!" It was gladness pure and simple,--the
dictionary has no other word to express it. No pen can do justice to the
panorama of mountain and valley and plain as viewed from such a height
on a clear, crisp morning of June. One felt like exclaiming with George
Herbert:
"Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky!"
So far as the aesthetic value of it went, I was monarch of all I
surveyed, even though mile on mile of grandeur and glory was spread out
before me. The quatrain of Lowell recurred to my mind:
"'Tis heaven alone that is given away,
'Tis only God may be had for the asking;
No price is set on the lavish summer;
June may be had by poorest comer."
Before leaving the Peak, I watched a flock of birds eating from the
waste-heap at the Summit House. They were the brown-capped rosy finches,
called scientifically _Leucosticte australis_. Their plumage was a rich
chocolate, suffused over neck, breast, and back with intense crimson,
while the pileum was quite black. With one exception--the white-tailed
ptarmigan--they range the highest in summer of all Colorado birds. They
are never seen below timber-line in that season, and are not known to
breed below twelve thousand feet; thence to the tops of the highest
peaks they hatch and rear their young. In August old and young swarm
over the summits picking edible insects from the snow, while in winter
they descend to timber-line, where most of them remain to brave the
arctic weather and its frequent storms.
Bidding a regretful good-by to the summit, for it held me as by a
magician's spell, I hastened down the steep incline of the cog-wheel
road, past Windy Point, and turning to the right, descended across the
green slope below the boulder region to the open, sunlit valley which I
had visited on the previous afternoon. It was an idyllic place, a
veritable paradise for birds. Such a chorus as greeted me from the
throats of I know not how many white-crowned sparrows,--several dozen,
perhaps,--it would have done the heart of any lover of avian minstrelsy
good to listen to. The whole valley seemed to be transfigured by their
roundelays, which have about them such an air of poetry and old-world
romance. During the morning I was so fortunate as to find a nest, the
first of this species that I had ever discovered. Providence had never
before cast my lot with these birds in their breeding haunts. The nest
was a pretty structure placed on the ground, beneath a bush amid the
green grass, its holdings consisting of four dainty, pale-blue eggs,
speckled with brown. The female leaped from her seat as I passed near,
and in that act divulged her little family secret. Although she chirped
uneasily as I bent over her treasures, she had all her solicitude for
nothing; the last thing I would think of doing would be to mar her
maternal prospects. As has been said, in this valley these handsome
sparrows were quite plentiful; but when, toward evening, I clambered
over a ridge, and descended into the valley of Moraine Lake, several
hundred feet lower than the Seven Lakes valley, what was my surprise to
find not a white-crown there! The next day I trudged up to the Seven
Lakes, and found the white-crowns quite abundant in the copses, as they
had been farther up the hollow on the previous day; and, besides, in a
boggy place about two miles below Moraine Lake there were several pairs,
and I was fortunate enough to find a nest. Strange--was it not?--that
these birds should avoid the copsy swamps near Moraine Lake, and yet
select for breeding homes the valleys both above and below it. Perhaps
the valley of Moraine Lake is a little too secluded and shut in by the
towering mountains on three sides, the other places being more open and
sunshiny.
The upper valley was the summer home of that musician _par excellence_
of the Rockies, the green-tailed towhee, and he sang most divinely,
pouring out his
"full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art."
Having elsewhere described his minstrelsy and habits with more or less
fulness, I need give him only this passing reference here. A little bird
with which I here first made acquaintance was an elegant species known
as Audubon's warbler, which may be regarded as the western
representative of the myrtle warbler of the East. The two birds are
almost counterparts. Indeed, at first I mistook the Audubon for the
myrtle. The former has a yellow throat, while the latter's throat is
white.
In all the upper mountain valleys, and on the steep slopes of the
western as well as the eastern side of the Divide, I had the Audubon
warblers often at my elbow. In summer they make their homes at an
altitude of seven to eleven thousand feet, and are partial to pine
timber; indeed, I think I never found them elsewhere, save occasionally
among the quaking asps. I learned to distinguish Audubon's chanson from
those of his fellow-minstrels. It is not much of a song--a rather weak
little trill, with a kind of drawl in the vocalization that forms its
diagnostic feature. The persistency with which it is repeated on the
solitary pine-clad mountain sides constitutes its principal charm.
The winter haunts of Audubon's warblers are farther south than Colorado,
mostly in Mexico and Guatemala, although a few of them remain in the
sheltered mountain valleys of the western part of the United States.
Early in May they appear on the plains of eastern Colorado, where they
are known only as migrants. Here a double movement presently takes
place--what might be called a longitudinal and a vertical migration--one
division of the warbler army sweeping north to their breeding grounds in
Canada, and the other wheeling westward and ascending to the alpine
heights among the mountains, where they find the subartic conditions
that are congenial to their natures without travelling so great a
distance. Here they build their nests in the pine or spruce trees, rear
their families, and as autumn approaches, descend to the plains, tarry
there a week or two, then hie to their winter homes in the South.
One of the most gorgeous tenants of this valley was Wilson's warbler.[3]
It wears a dainty little cap that is jet black, bordered in front and
below with golden yellow, while the upper parts are rich olive and the
lower parts bright yellow. These warblers were quite abundant, and were
evidently partial to the thickets covering the boggy portions of the
vale. While Audubon's warblers kept themselves for the most part among
the pines on the slopes and acclivities, the little black-caps preferred
the lower ground. Their songs were not brilliant performances, though
rather pleasing, being short, jerky trills, somewhat lower in the scale
than those of the well-known summer warbler.
[3] Mr. Aiken says, "The Rocky Mountain representative of Wilson's
warbler is an intermediate form, nearest the Pacific coast bird
which is distinguished as the pileolated warbler."
While I was stalking about in the low, boggy part of the hollow, my
attention was attracted by an odd little song that came rolling down
from the pines on the mountain side. At length, time was found to go to
the place whence the song came. What could the gay little minstrel be?
Somewhere I had heard such minstrelsy--but where? There were runs in it
that bore some resemblance to certain strains of the Carolina wren's
vigorous lays, but this songster's voice was of a finer quality and had
less volume than that of the Carolina. The little bird was found
flitting among the pines, and continued to sing his gay little ballad
with as much vigor as before. Indeed, my presence seemed to inspire him
to redouble his efforts and to sing with more snap and challenge. He
acted somewhat like a wren, but was smaller than any species of that
family with which I was acquainted, and no part of his plumage was
barred with brown and white.
Now the midget in feathers leaped up the alternating branches of a pine,
and now he flew down and fluttered amid the chaos of dead logs and
boughs on the ground, all the while rolling his ditty from his limber
tongue. Beginning with an exceedingly fine whistle, which could not
be heard far away, he descanted in sounds that it is impossible to
convey in syllables. The best literation of his song that I was
able to make was the following: "Tse-e-ek, tse-e-ek, tse-e-e-ek,
cholly-cholly-cholly, che-che-che, pur-tie, pur-tie, pur-tie!" the
_pur-tie_ accented strongly on the second syllable and the whole
performance closing with an interrogative inflection.
For a long time I watched the little acrobat, but could not settle his
identity. Some hours later, while stalking along the other side of the
valley, I heard the song duplicated; this time the singer elevated his
crest feathers, and at once I recognized him; he was the ruby-crowned
kinglet, of course, of course! It was a shame not to identify him at
first sight. In Ohio I had often heard his song during the migrating
season, and now remembered it well; but never dreaming that the
ruby-crown would be found in these alpine districts, I was completely
thrown off my reckoning on hearing his quaint melodies.
[Illustration: _Ruby-Crowned Kinglet_
"_The singer elevated his crest feathers_"]
The ruby-crowned kinglet migrates to these heights in the spring and
rears his brood at an elevation of from nine thousand feet to the
timber-line, building a nest far up in a pine tree; whereas his eastern
kindred hie to the northern part of the United States and beyond, to
find summer homes and suitable breeding grounds. Within their chosen
boundaries the rubies are very plentiful in the Rockies, their quaint
rondeaus tumbling down from every pine-clad acclivity. In October they
descend to the plains, and in the latter part of the month hurry off to
a more southerly clime.
The birds were most abundant in the upper part of the valley, keeping
close to the precipitous heights of the Peak. It was a long walk down to
the mountaineer's cabin, and I had reason to be glad for not having
undertaken to find it the evening before, as I should certainly have
lost my way in the darkness. No one was at home now, but through the
screen door I could see a canary in a cage. Not a very inviting place to
spend the night, I reflected, and I crossed the valley, climbed a steep
ridge, following a slightly used wagon road, and trudged down the other
side into what I afterwards found was the valley of Moraine Lake, one of
the crystal sheets of water that are seen from the summit of Pike's Peak
sparkling in the sunshine. While climbing the ridge, I saw my first
mountain chickadee, capering about in the trees. He called like the
familiar black-cap, and his behavior was much like that bird's. As will
be seen in another chapter, I afterwards heard the mountain chickadee's
song on the western side of the range, and found it to be quite unlike
the minor strain of our pleasant black-cap of the East.
On the mountain side forming the descent to Moraine Lake a flock of
Clark's nutcrackers were flying about in the pine woods, giving
expression to their feelings in a great variety of calls, some of them
quite strident. A little junco came in sight by the side of the trail,
and hopped about on the ground, and I was surprised to note a reddish
patch ornamenting the centre of his back. Afterwards I learned that it
was the gray-headed junco, which is distinctly a western species,
breeding among the mountains of Colorado. Thrashing about among some
dead boles, and making a great to-do, were a pair of small woodpeckers,
which closely resembled the well-known downies of our eastern
longitudes. I suppose them to have been their western representatives,
which are known, according to Mr. Aiken and Professor Cooke, as
Batchelder's woodpecker. Near the same place I saw a second pair of
mountain bluebirds, flitting about somewhat nervously, and uttering a
gentle sigh at intervals; but as evening was now rapidly approaching, I
felt the need of finding lodging for the night, and could not stop to
hunt for their nest.
Faring down the mountain side to the lake, I circled around its lower
end until I came to the cottage of the family who have the care of the
reservoirs that supply the three towns at the foot of the mountains
with water fresh from the snow-fields. Here, to my intense relief, I was
able to secure lodging and board as long as I desired to remain.
I enjoyed the generous hospitality offered me for two nights and
considerably more than one day. It was a genuine retreat, right at the
foot of a tall mountain, embowered in a grove of quaking asps. Several
persons from Colorado Springs, one of them a professor of the college,
were spending their outing at the cottage, and a delightful fellowship
we had, discussing birds, literature, and mountain climbing.
After resting awhile, I strolled up the valley to listen to the vesper
concert of the birds, and a rich one it was. The western robins were
piping their blithesome "Cheerilies," Audubon's warblers were trilling
in the pines, and, most of all--but here I had one of the most
gratifying finds in all my mountain quest. It will perhaps be remembered
that the white-crowned sparrows, so plentiful in the upper valley, were
not to be seen in the valley of Moraine Lake. Still there were
compensations in this cloistered dip among the towering mountains; the
mountain hermit thrushes--sometimes called Audubon's thrushes--found the
sequestered valley precisely to their liking, and on the evening in
question I saw them and heard their pensive cadences for the first time.
Such exquisite tones, which seemed to take vocal possession of the vale
and the steep, pine-clad mountain side, it has seldom been my good
fortune to hear. Scores of the birds were singing simultaneously, some
of their voices pitched high in the scale and others quite low, as
though they were furnishing both the air and the contralto of the
chorus. It was my first opportunity to listen to the songs of any of the
several varieties of hermit thrushes, and I freely confess that I came,
a willing captive, under the spell of their minstrelsy, so sweet and sad
and far away, and yet so rich in vocal expression. In the latter part of
the run, which is all too brief, there is a strain which bears close
resemblance to the liquid melody of the eastern wood-thrush, but the
opening notes have a pathetic quality all their own. Perhaps Charles G.
D. Roberts can give some idea of one's feelings at a time like this:
"O hermit of evening! thine hour
Is the sacrament of desire,
When love hath a heavenlier flower,
And passion a holier fire."
A happy moment it was when a nest of this mountain hermit was
discovered, saddled on one of the lower limbs of a pine and containing
four eggs of a rich green color. These birds are partial to dense pine
forests on the steep, rocky mountain sides. They are extremely shy and
elusive, evidently believing that hermit thrushes ought to be heard and
not seen. A score or more may be singing at a stone's throw up an
acclivity, but if you clamber toward them they will simply remove
further up the mountain, making your effort to see and hear them at
close range unavailing. That evening, however, as the gloaming settled
upon the valley, one selected a perch on a dead branch some distance up
the hillside, and obligingly permitted me to obtain a fair view of him
with my glass. The hermits breed far up in the mountains, the greatest
altitude at which I found them being on the sides of Bald Mountain,
above Seven Lakes and a little below the timber-line. To this day their
sad refrains are ringing in my ears, bringing back the thought of many
half-mournful facts and incidents that haunt the memory.
A good night's rest in the cottage, close beneath the unceiled roof,
prepared the bird-lover for an all-day ramble. The matutinal concert was
early in full swing, the hermit thrushes, western robins, and Audubon's
warblers being the chief choralists. One gaudy Audubon's warbler visited
the quaking asp grove surrounding the cottage, and trilled the choicest
selections of his repertory. Farther up the valley several Wilson's
warblers were seen and heard. A shy little bird flitting about in the
tangle of grass and bushes in the swampy ground above the lake was a
conundrum to me for a long time, but I now know that it was Lincoln's
sparrow, which was later found in other ravines among the mountains. It
is an exceedingly wary bird, keeping itself hidden amid the bushy
clusters for the greater part of the time, now and then venturing to
peep out at the intruder, and then bolting quickly into a safe covert.
Occasionally it will hop out upon the top of a bush in plain sight, and
remain for a few moments, just long enough for you to fix its identity
and note the character of its pleasing trill. Some of these points were
settled afterwards and not on the morning of my first meeting with the
chary little songster.
My plan for the day was to retrace my steps of the previous afternoon,
by climbing over the ridge into the upper valley and visiting the famous
Seven Lakes, which I had missed the day before through a miscalculation
in my direction. Clark's crows and the mountain jays were abundant on
the acclivities. One of the latter dashed out of a pine bush with a
clatter that almost raised the echoes, but, look as I would, I could
find no nest or young or anything else that would account for the
racket.
The Seven Lakes are beautiful little sheets of transparent water,
embosomed among the mountains in a somewhat open valley where there is
plenty of sunshine. They are visible from the summit of Pike's Peak,
from which distant viewpoint they sparkle like sapphire gems in a
setting of green. As seen from the Peak they appear to be quite close
together, and the land about them seems perfectly level, but when you
visit the place itself, you learn that some of them are separated from
the others by ridges of considerable height. Beautiful and sequestered
as the spot is, I did not find as many birds as I expected. Not a duck
or water bird of any kind was seen. Perhaps there is too much hunting
about the lakes, and, besides, winged visitors here would have
absolutely no protection, for the banks are free of bushes of any
description, and no rushes or flags grow in the shallower parts. On the
ridges and mountain sides the kinglets and hermit thrushes were
abundant, a robin was carolling, a Batchelder woodpecker chirped and
pounded in his tumultuous way, Clark's crows and several magpies lilted
about, while below the lakes in the copses the white-crowned sparrows
and green-tailed towhees held lyrical carnival, their sway disputed only
by the natty Wilson's warblers.
It was a pleasure to be alive and well in such a place, where one
breathed invigoration at every draught of the fresh, untainted mountain
air; nor was it less a delight to sit on the bank of one of the
transparent lakes and eat my luncheon and quaff from a pellucid spring
that gushed as cold as ice and as sweet as nectar from the sand, while
the white-crowned sparrows trilled a serenade in the copses.
Toward evening I clambered down to the cottage by Moraine Lake. The next
morning, in addition to the birds already observed in the valley, I
listened to the theme-like recitative of a warbling vireo, and also
watched a sandpiper teetering about the edge of the water, while a
red-shafted flicker dashed across the lake to a pine tree on the
opposite side. As I left this attractive valley, the hermit thrushes
seemed to waft me a sad farewell.
A little over half a day was spent in walking down from Moraine Lake to
the Halfway House. It was a saunter that shall never be forgotten, for I
gathered a half day's tribute of lore from the birds. A narrow green
hollow, wedging itself into one of the gorges of the towering Peak, and
watered by a snow-fed mountain brook, proved a very paradise for birds.
Here was that queer little midget of the Rockies, the broad-tailed
humming-bird, which performs such wonderful feats of balancing in the
air; the red-shafted flicker; the western robin, singing precisely like
his eastern half-brother; a pair of house-wrens guarding their
treasures; Lincoln's sparrows, not quite so shy as those at Moraine
Lake; mountain chickadees; olive-sided flycatchers; on the pine-clad
mountain sides the lyrical hermit thrushes; and finally those
ballad-singers of the mountain vales, the white-crowned sparrows, one of
whose nests I was so fortunate as to come upon. It was placed in a small
pine bush, and was just in process of construction. One of the birds
flew fiercely at a mischievous chipmunk, and drove him away, as if he
knew him for an arrant nest-robber.
Leaving this enchanting spot, I trudged down the mountain valleys and
ravines, holding silent converse everywhere with the birds, and at
length reached a small park, green and bushy, a short distance above the
Halfway House. While jogging along, my eye caught sight of a gray-headed
junco, which flitted from a clump of bushes bordering the stream to a
spot on the ground close to some shrubs. The act appeared so suggestive
that I decided to reconnoitre. I walked cautiously to the spot where the
bird had dropped down, and in a moment she flew up with a scolding
chipper. There was the nest, set on the ground in the grass and cosily
hidden beneath the over-arching branches of a low bush. Had the mother
bird been wise and courageous enough to retain her place, her secret
would not have been betrayed, the nest was so well concealed.
The pretty couch contained four juvenile juncos covered only with down,
and yet, in spite of their extreme youth, their foreheads and lores
showed black, and their backs a distinctly reddish tint, so early in
life were they adopting the pattern worn by their parents. The
persistency of species in the floral and faunal realms presents some
hard nuts for the evolutionist to crack. But that is an excursus, and
would lead us too far afield. This was the first junco's nest I had ever
found, and no one can blame me for feeling gratified with the
discovery. The gray-headed juncos were very abundant in the Rockies, and
are the only species at present known to breed in the State of Colorado.
They are differentiated from the common slate-colored snowbird by their
ash-gray suits, modestly decorated with a rust-colored patch on the
back.
It was now far past noon, and beginning to feel weak with hunger, I
reluctantly said adieu to the junco and her brood, and hurried on to the
Halfway House, where a luncheon of sandwiches, pie and coffee
strengthened me for the remainder of my tramp down the mountain to
Manitou. That was a walk which lingers like a Greek legend in my memory
on account of--well, that is the story that remains to be told.
On a former visit to the Halfway House I was mentally knocked off my
feet by several glimpses of a woodpecker which was entirely new to me,
and of whose existence I was not even aware until this gorgeous
gentleman hove in sight. He was the handsomest member of the _Picidae_
family I have ever seen--his upper parts glossy black, some portions
showing a bluish iridescence; his belly rich sulphur yellow, a bright
red median stripe on the throat, set in the midst of the black, looking
like a small necktie; two white stripes running along the side of the
head, and a large white patch covering the middle and greater
wing-coverts. Altogether, an odd livery for a woodpecker. Silently he
swung from bole to bole for a few minutes, and then disappeared.
Not until I reached my room in Manitou could I fix the bird's place in
the avicular system. By consulting Coues's _Key_ and Professor Cooke's
brochure on the _Birds of Colorado_, I found this quaintly costumed
woodpecker to be Williamson's sapsucker (_Sphyrapicus thyroideus_),
known only in the western part of the United States from the Rocky
Mountains to the Pacific coast. I now lingered in the beautiful pine
grove surrounding the Halfway House, hoping to see him again, but he did
not appear, and I reluctantly started down the cog-wheel track.
As I was turning a bend in the road, I caught sight of a mountain
chickadee flitting to a dead snag on the slope at the right, the next
moment slipping into a small hole leading inside. I climbed up to the
shelf, a small level nook among the tall pines on the mountain side, to
inspect her retreat, for it was the first nest of this interesting
species that I found. The chickadee flashed in and out of the orifice,
carrying food to her little ones, surreptitiously executing her
housewifely duties. The mountain tit seems to be a shy and quiet little
body when compared with the common black-cap known in the East.
While watching this bird from my place of concealment, I became
conscious of the half-suppressed chirping of a woodpecker, and, to my
intense joy, a moment later a Williamson's sapsucker swung to a pine
bole a little below me and began pecking leisurely and with assumed
nonchalance for grubs in the fissures of the bark. From my hiding-place
behind some bushes I kept my eye on the handsome creature. An artist
might well covet the privilege of painting this elegant bird as he
scales the wall of a pine tree. Presently he glided to a snag not more
than a rod from the chickadee's domicile, and then I noticed that the
dead bole was perforated by a number of woodpecker holes, into one of
which the sapsucker presently slipped with the tidbit he held in his
bill. The doorway was almost too small for him, obliging him to turn
slightly sidewise and make some effort to effect an entrance. Fortune
had treated me as one of her favorites: I had discovered the nest of
Williamson's sapsucker.
But still another surprise was in store. A low, dubious chirping was
heard, and then the female ambled leisurely to the snag and hitched up
to the orifice. She made several efforts to enter, but could not while
her spouse was within. Presently he wormed himself out, whereupon she
went in, and remained for some time. At length I crept to the snag and
beat against it with my cane. She was loath to leave the nest, but after
a little while decided that discretion was the better part of valor.
When she came out, my presence so near her nursery caused her not a
little agitation, which she displayed by flinging about from bole to
bole and uttering a nervous chirp.
As to costume, the male and the female had little in common. Her back
was picturesquely mottled and barred with black and white, her head
light brown, her breast decorated with a large black patch, and her
other under parts yellow. Had the couple not been seen together flitting
about the nest, they would not have been regarded as mates, so
differently were they habited.
Standing before the doorway of the nursery--it was not quite so high as
my head--I could plainly hear the chirping of the youngsters within.
Much as I coveted the sight of a brood of this rare species, I could not
bring myself to break down the walls of their cottage and thus expose
them to the claws and beaks of their foes. Even scientific curiosity
must be restrained by considerations of mercy.
The liege lord of the family had now disappeared. Desirous of seeing him
once more, I hid myself in a bush-clump near at hand and awaited his
return. Presently he came ambling along and scrambled into the orifice,
turning his body sidewise, as he had done before. I made my way quietly
to the snag and tapped upon it with my cane, but he did not come out, as
I expected him to do. Then I struck the snag more vigorously. No result.
Then I whacked the bole directly in the rear of the nest, while I stood
close at one side watching the doorway. The bird came to the orifice,
peeped out, then, seeing me, quickly drew back, determined not to desert
his brood in what he must have regarded as an emergency. In spite of all
my pounding and coaxing and feigned scolding--and I kept up the racket
for several minutes--I did not succeed in driving the _pater familias_
from his post of duty. Once he apparently made a slight effort to
escape, but evidently stuck fast in the entrance, and so dropped back
and would not leave, only springing up to the door and peeping out at me
when my appeals became especially vigorous. It appeared like a genuine
case of "I'm determined to defend my children, or die in the attempt!"
Meanwhile the mother bird was flitting about in an agitated way,
uttering piteous cries of remonstrance and entreaty. Did that bandit
intend to rob her of both her husband and her children? It was useless,
if not wanton, to hector the poor creatures any longer, even to study
their behavior under trying circumstances; and I left them in peace, and
hurried down to my lodgings in Manitou, satisfied with the results of my
day's ramble.
BIRDS OF THE ARID PLAIN
[Illustration: PLATE III
LAZULI BUNTING--_Cyanospiza amoena_
(Upper figure, male; lower, female)]
Having explored the summit of Pike's Peak and part of its southern slope
down to the timber-line, and spent several delightful days in the upper
valleys of the mountains, as well as in exploring several canyons, the
rambler was desirous of knowing what species of birds reside on the
plain stretching eastward from the bases of the towering ranges. One
afternoon in the latter part of June, I found myself in a straggling
village about forty miles east of Colorado Springs.
On looking around, I was discouraged, and almost wished I had not come;
for all about me extended the parched and treeless plain, with only here
and there a spot that had a cast of verdure, and even that was of a dull
and sickly hue. Far off to the northeast rose a range of low hills
sparsely covered with scraggy pines, but they were at least ten miles
away, perhaps twenty, and had almost as arid an aspect as that of the
plains themselves. Only one small cluster of deciduous trees was
visible, about a mile up a shallow valley or "draw." Surely this was a
most unpromising field for bird study. If I had only been content to
remain among the mountains, where, even though the climbing was
difficult, there were brawling brooks, shady woodlands, and green, copsy
vales in which many feathered friends had lurked!
[Illustration: _Desert Horned Larks_
"_They were plentiful in this parched region_"]
But wherever the bird-lover chances to be, his mania leads him to look
for his favorites, and he is seldom disappointed; rather, he is often
delightfully surprised. People were able to make a livelihood here, as
was proved by the presence of the village and a few scattering dwellings
on the plain; then why not the birds, which are as thrifty and wise in
many ways as their human relatives? In a short time my baggage was
stowed in a safe place, and, field-glass in hand, I sallied forth for my
first jaunt on a Colorado plain. But, hold! what were these active
little birds, hopping about on the street and sipping from the pool by
the village well? They were the desert horned larks, so called because
they select the dry plains of the West as their dwelling place. They are
interesting birds. The fewer trees and the less humidity, provided
there is a spot not too far away at which they may quench their thirst
and rinse their feathers, the better they seem to be pleased. They were
plentiful in this parched region, running or flying cheerfully before me
wherever my steps were bent. I could not help wondering how many
thousands of them--and millions, perhaps--had taken up free homesteads
on the seemingly limitless plains of eastern Colorado.
Most of the young had already left the nest, and were flying about in
the company of their elders, learning the fine art of making a living
for themselves and evading the many dangers to which bird flesh is heir.
The youngsters could readily be distinguished from their seniors by the
absence of distinct black markings on throat, chest, and forehead, and
the lighter cast of their entire plumage.
Sometimes these birds are called shore larks; but that is evidently a
misnomer, or at least a very inapt name, for they are not in the least
partial to the sea-shore or even the shores of lakes, but are more
disposed to take up their residence in inland and comparatively dry
regions. There are several varieties, all bearing a very close
resemblance, so close, indeed, that only an expert ornithologist can
distinguish them, even with the birds in hand. The common horned lark is
well known in the eastern part of the United States as a winter
resident, while in the middle West, Missouri, Kansas, Nebraska, etc.,
are to be found the prairie horned larks, which, as their name
indicates, choose the open prairie for their home. The desert horned
larks are tenants exclusively of the arid plains, mesas, and mountain
parks of the West. There is still another variety, called the pallid
horned lark, which spends the winter in Colorado, then hies himself
farther north in summer to rear his brood.
As I pursued my walk, one of these birds suddenly assumed an alert
attitude, then darted into the air, mounting up, up, up, in a series of
swift leaps, like "an embodied joy whose race has just begun." Up he
soared until he could no longer be seen with the naked eye, and even
through my field-glass he was a mere speck against the blue canopy, and
yet, high as he had gone, his ditty filtered down to me through the
still, rarefied atmosphere, like a sifting of fine sand. His descent was
a grand plunge, made with the swiftness of an Indian's arrow, his head
bent downward, his wings partly folded, and his tail perked upward at
precisely the proper angle to make a rudder, all the various organs so
finely adjusted as to convert him into a perfectly dirigible parachute.
Swift as his descent was, he alighted on the ground as lightly as a tuft
of down. It was the poetry of motion. One or two writers have insisted
that the horned lark's empyrean song compares favorably with that of
the European skylark; but, loyal and patriotic an American as we are,
honesty compels us to concede that our bird's voice is much feebler and
less musical than that of his celebrated relative across the sea. It
sounds like the unmelodious clicking of pebbles, while the song of the
skylark is loud, clear, and ringing.
Our birds of the plain find insects to their taste in the short grass
which carpets the land with greenish or olive gray. The following
morning a mother lark was seen gathering insects and holding them in her
bill--a sure sign of fledglings in the near neighborhood. I decided to
watch her, and, if possible, find her bantlings. It required not a
little patience, for she was wary and the sun poured down a flood of
almost blistering heat. This way and that she scurried over the ground,
now picking up an insect and adding it to the store already in her bill,
and now standing almost erect to eye me narrowly and with some
suspicion. At length she seemed to settle down for a moment upon a
particular spot, and when I looked again with my glass, her beak was
empty. I examined every inch of ground, as I thought, in the
neighborhood of the place where she had stopped, but could find neither
nest nor nestlings.
Again I turned my attention to the mother bird, which meanwhile had
gathered another bunch of insects and was hopping about with them
through the croppy grass, now and then adding to her accumulation until
her mouth was full. For a long time she zigzagged about, going by
provoking fits and starts. At length fortune favored me, for through my
levelled glass I suddenly caught sight of a small, grayish-looking ball
hopping and tumbling from a cactus clump toward the mother bird, who
jabbed the contents of her bill into a small, open mouth. I followed a
bee-line to the spot, and actually had to scan the ground sharply for a
few moments before I could distinguish the youngster from its
surroundings, for it had squatted flat, its gray and white plumage
harmonizing perfectly with the grayish desert grass.
[Illustration: _Lark_
"_It was a dear little thing_"]
It was a dear little thing, and did not try to escape, although I took
it up in my hand and stroked its downy back again and again. Sometimes
it closed its eyes as if it were sleepy. When I placed it on the ground,
it hopped away a few inches, and by accident punctured the fleshy corner
of its mouth with a sharp cactus thorn, and had to jerk itself loose,
bringing the blood from the lacerated part. Meanwhile the mother lark
went calmly about her household duties, merely keeping a watchful eye
on the human meddler, and making no outcry when she saw her infant in my
possession. I may have been _persona non grata_, but, if so, she did not
express her feeling. This was the youngest horned lark seen by me in my
rambles on the plains.
Perhaps the reader will care to know something about the winter habits
of these birds. They do not spend the season of cold and storm in the
mountains, not even those that breed there, for the snow is very deep
and the tempests especially fierce. Many of them, however, remain in the
foothills and on the mesas and plains, where they find plenty of seeds
and berries for their sustenance, unless the weather chances to be
unusually severe. One winter, not long ago, the snow continued to lie
much longer than usual, cutting off the natural food supply of the
larks. What regimen did they adopt in that exigency? They simply went to
town. Many of the kindly disposed citizens of Colorado Springs scattered
crumbs and millet seeds on the streets and lawns, and of this supply the
little visitors ate greedily, becoming quite tame. As soon, however, as
the snow disappeared they took their departure, not even stopping to say
thanks or adieu; although we may take it for granted that they felt
grateful for favors bestowed.
Besides the horned larks, many other birds were found on the plain. Next
in abundance were the western meadow-larks. Persons who live in the
East and are familiar with the songs of the common meadow-lark, should
hear the vocal performances of the westerners. The first time I heard
one of them, the minstrelsy was so strange to my ear, so different from
anything I had ever heard, I was thrown into an ecstasy of delight, and
could not imagine from what kind of bird larynx so quaint a medley could
emanate. The song opened with a loud, fine, piercing whistle, and ended
with an abrupt staccato gurgle much lower in the musical staff, sounding
precisely as if the soloist's performance had been suddenly choked off
by the rising of water in the windpipe. It was something after the order
of the purple martin's melodious sputter, only the tones were richer and
fuller and the music better defined, as became a genuine oscine. His
sudden and emphatic cessation seemed to indicate that he was in a
petulant mood, perhaps impatient with the intruder, or angry with a
rival songster.
Afterwards I heard him--or, rather, one of his brothers--sing arias so
surpassingly sweet that I voted him the master minstrel of the western
plains, prairies, and meadows. One evening as I was returning to
Colorado Springs from a long tramp through one of the canyons of the
mountains, a western meadow-lark sat on a small tree and sang six
different tunes within the space of a few minutes. Two of them were so
exquisite and unique that I involuntarily sprang to my feet with a cry
of delight. There he sat in the lengthening shadows of Cheyenne
Mountain, the champion phrase-fluter of the irrigated meadow in which he
and a number of his comrades had found a summer home.
On the plain, at the time of my visit, the meadow-larks were not quite
so tuneful, for here the seasons are somewhat earlier than in the
proximity of the mountains, and the time of courtship and incubation was
over. Still, they sang enough to prove themselves members of a gifted
musical family. Observers in the East will remember the sputtering call
of the eastern larks when they are alarmed or their suspicions are
aroused. The western larks do not utter alarums of that kind, but a
harsh "chack" instead, very similar to the call of the grackles. The
nesting habits of the eastern and western species are the same, their
domiciles being placed on the ground amid the grass, often prettily
arched over in the rear and made snug and neat.
It must not be thought, because my monograph on the western larks is
included in this chapter, that they dwell exclusively on the arid plain.
No; they revel likewise in the areas of verdure bordering the streams,
in the irrigated fields and meadows, and in the watered portions of the
upper mountain parks.
An interesting question is the following: Are the eastern and western
meadow-larks distinct species, or only varieties somewhat specialized by
differences of locality and environment? It is a problem over which the
scientific professors have had not a little disputation. My own opinion
is that they are distinct species and do not cohabit, and the conviction
is based on some special investigations, though not of the kind that are
made with the birds in hand. It has been my privilege to study both
forms in the field. In the first place, their vocal exhibitions are very
different, so much so as to indicate a marked diversity in the organic
structure of their larynxes. Much as I have listened to their
minstrelsy, I have never known one kind to borrow from the musical
repertory of the other. True, there are strains in the arias of the
westerners that closely resemble the clear, liquid whistle of the
eastern larks, but they occur right in the midst of the song and are
part and parcel of it, and therefore afford no evidence of mimicry or
amalgamation. Even the trills of the grassfinch and the song-sparrow
have points of similarity; does that prove that they borrow from each
other, or that espousals sometimes occur between the two species?
The habiliments of the two forms of larks are more divergent than would
appear at first blush. Above, the coloration of _neglecta_ (the western)
is paler and grayer than that of _magna_, the black markings being less
conspicuous, and those on the tertials and middle tail-feathers being
arranged in narrow, isolated bars, and not connected along the shaft.
While the flanks and under tail-coverts of _magna_ are distinctly washed
with buff, those of _neglecta_ are white, very faintly tinged with buff,
if at all. The yellow of the throat of the eastern form does not spread
out laterally over the malar region, as does that of the western lark.
All of which tends to prove that the two forms are distinct.
Early in the spring of 1901 the writer took a trip to Oklahoma in the
interest of bird-study, and found both kinds of meadow-larks extremely
abundant and lavish of their melodies on the fertile prairies. He
decided to carry on a little original investigation in the field of
inquiry now under discussion. One day, in a draw of the prairie, he
noticed a western meadow-lark which was unusually lyrical, having the
skill of a past-master in the art of trilling and gurgling and fluting.
Again and again I went to the place, on the same day and on different
days, and invariably found the westerner there, perching on the fence or
a weed-stem, and greeting me with his exultant lays. But, mark: no
eastern lark ever intruded on his preserve. In other and more distant
parts of the broad field the easterners were blowing their piccolos, but
they did not encroach on the domain of the lyrical westerner, who, with
his mate--now on her nest in the grass--had evidently jumped his claim
and held it with a high hand. In many other places in Oklahoma and
Kansas where both species dwell, I have noticed the same interesting
fact--that in the breeding season each form selects a special precinct,
into which the other form does not intrude. They perhaps put up some
kind of trespass sign. These observations have all but convinced me that
_S. magna_ and _S. neglecta_ are distinct species, and avoid getting
mixed up in their family affairs.
Nor is that all. While both forms dwell on the vast prairies of
Oklahoma, Kansas, and Nebraska, yet, as you travel eastward, the western
larks gradually diminish in number until at length they entirely
disappear; whereas, if you journey westward, the precise opposite
occurs. I have never heard _neglecta_ east of the Missouri River,[4] nor
_magna_ on the plains of Colorado. Therefore the conclusion is almost
forced upon the observer that there are structural and organic
differences between the two forms.
[4] He sometimes ventures, though sparingly, as far east as Illinois
and Wisconsin; still my statement is true--I have never heard the
western lark even in the bottoms and meadows of the broad valley
east of the Missouri River, while, one spring morning, I did hear
one of these birds fluting in the top of a cottonwood tree in my
yard on the high western bluff of that stream.
After the foregoing deductions had been reached, the writer bethought
him of consulting Ridgway's Manual on the subject, and was gratified to
find his views corroborated by a footnote answering to an asterisk
affixed to the name of the western lark:
"Without much doubt a distinct species. The occurrence of both _S.
neglecta_ and _S. magna_ together in many portions of the
Mississippi Valley, each in its typical style (the ranges of the two
overlapping, in fact, for a distance of several hundred miles),
taken together with the excessive rarity of intermediate specimens
and the universally attested radical difference in their notes, are
facts wholly incompatible with the theory of their being merely
geographical races of the same species."
This has been a long _excursus_, and we must get back to our jaunt on
the plain. While I was engaged in watching the birds already named, my
ear was greeted by a loud, clear, bell-like call; and, on looking in the
direction from which it came, I observed a bird hovering over a ploughed
field not far away, and then descending with graceful, poising flight to
the ground. It proved to be the Arkansas flycatcher, a large, elegant
bird that is restricted to the West. I had never seen this species.
Nothing like him is known in the East, the crested flycatcher being most
nearly a copy of him, although the manners of the two birds are quite
unlike. The body of the western bird is as large as that of the robin,
and he must be considerably longer from tip of beak to tip of tail. He
is a fine-looking fellow, presenting a handsome picture as he stands on
a weed-stalk or a fence-post, his yellow jacket gleaming in the sun. He
is the possessor of a clear, musical voice, and if he had the vocal
organs of some of the oscines, he certainly would be one of the best
feathered lyrists of America. Unfortunately he is able to do nothing but
chirp and chatter, although he puts not a little music into his simple
vocal exercises.
It was surprising to note on how slender a weed-stalk so large a bird
was able to perch. There being few trees and fences in this region, he
has doubtless gained expertness through practice in the art of securing
a foot-hold on the tops of the weed-stems. Some of the weeds on which he
stood with perfect ease and grace were extremely lithe and flexible and
almost devoid of branches.
But what was the cause of this particular bird's intense solicitude? It
was obvious there was a nest in the neighborhood. As I sought in the
grass and weed-clumps, he uttered his piercing calls of protest and
circled and hovered overhead like a red-winged blackbird. Suddenly the
thought occurred to me that the flycatchers of my acquaintance do not
nest on the ground, but on trees. I looked around, and, sure enough, in
the shallow hollow below me stood a solitary willow tree not more than
fifteen or twenty feet high, the only tree to be seen within a mile. And
that lone tree on the plain was occupied by the flycatcher and his mate
for a nesting place. In a crotch the gray cottage was set, containing
three callow babies and one beautifully mottled egg.
In another fork of the same small tree a pair of kingbirds--the same
species as our well-known eastern bee-martins--had built their nest, in
the downy cup of which lay four eggs similarly decorated with brown
spots. The birds now all circled overhead and joined in an earnest plea
with me not to destroy their homes and little ones, and I hurriedly
climbed down from the tree to relieve their agitation, stopping only a
moment to examine the twine plaited into the felted nests of the
kingbirds. The willow sapling contained also the nest of a turtle dove.
"If there are three nests in this small tree, there may be a large
number in the cluster of trees beyond the swell about a mile away," I
mused, and forthwith made haste to go to the place indicated. I was not
disappointed. Had the effort been made, I am sure two score of nests
might have been found in these trees, for they were liberally decorated
with bird cots and hammocks. Most of these were kingbirds' and Arkansas
flycatchers' nests, but there were others as well. On one small limb
there were four of the dangling nests of Bullock's orioles, one of them
fresh, the rest more or less weather beaten, proving that this bird had
been rearing broods here for a number of seasons.
Whose song was this ringing from one of the larger trees a little
farther down the glade? I could scarcely believe the testimony of my
ears and eyes, yet there could be no mistake--it was the vivacious
mimicry of the mocking-bird, which had travelled far across the plain to
this solitary clump of trees to find singing perches and a site for his
nests. He piped his musical miscellany with as much good-cheer as if he
were dwelling in the neighborhood of some embowered cottage in
Dixie-land. In suitable localities on the plains of Colorado the mockers
were found to be quite plentiful, but none were seen among the
mountains.
A network of twigs and vines in one of the small willows afforded a
support and partial covert for the nest of a pair of white-rumped
shrikes. It contained six thickly speckled eggs, and was the first nest
of this species I had ever found. The same hollow,--if so shallow a dip
in the plain can be called a hollow,--was selected as the home of
several pairs of red-winged and Brewer's blackbirds, which built their
grassy cots in the low bushes of a slightly boggy spot, where a feeble
spring oozed from the ground. It was a special pleasure to find a
green-tailed towhee in the copse of the draw, for I had supposed that he
always hugged close to the steep mountain sides.
A walk before breakfast the next morning added several more avian
species to my roll. To my surprise, a pair of mountain bluebirds had
chosen the village for their summer residence, and were building a nest
in the coupler of a freight car standing on a side track. The domicile
was almost completed, and I could not help feeling sorry for the pretty,
innocent couple, at the thought that the car would soon be rolling
hundreds of miles away, and all their loving toil would go for naught.
Bluebirds had previously been seen at the timber-line among the
mountains, and here was a pair forty miles out on the plain--quite a
range for this species, both longitudinally and vertically.
During the forenoon the following birds were observed: A family of
juvenile Arkansas flycatchers, which were being fed by their parents; a
half-dozen or more western grassfinches, trilling the same pensive tunes
as their eastern half-brothers; a small, long-tailed sparrow, which I
could not identify at the time, but which I now feel certain was
Lincoln's sparrow; these, with a large marsh-harrier and a colony of
cliff-swallows, completed my bird catalogue at this place. It may not be
amiss to add that several jack-rabbits went skipping over the swells;
that many families of prairie dogs were visited, and that a coyotte
galloped lightly across the plain, stopping and looking back
occasionally to see whether he were being pursued.
It was no difficult task to study the birds on the plain. Having few
hiding-places in a locality almost destitute of trees and bushes, where
even the grass was too short to afford a covert, they naturally felt
little fear of man, and hence were easily approached. Their cousins
residing in the mountains were, as a rule, provokingly wary. The number
of birds that had pre-empted homesteads on the treeless wastes was
indeed a gratifying surprise, and I went back to the mountains refreshed
by the pleasant change my brief excursion upon the plains had afforded
me.
[Illustration: _Coyotte_
"_Looking back to see whether he were being pursued_"]
A PRETTY HUMMER
[Illustration]
Where do you suppose I got my first glimpse of the mite in feathers
called the broad-tailed humming-bird? It was in a green bower in the
Rocky Mountains in plain sight of the towering summit of Pike's Peak,
which seemed almost to be standing guard over the place. Two brawling
mountain brooks met here, and, joining their forces, went with increased
speed and gurgle down the glades and gorges. As they sped through this
ravine, they slightly overflowed their banks, making a boggy area of
about an acre as green as green could be; and here amid the grass and
bushes a number of birds found a pleasant summer home, among them the
dainty hummer.
From the snow-drifts, still to be seen in the sheltered gorges of Pike's
Peak, the breezes would frequently blow down into the nook with a
freshness that stimulated like wine with no danger of intoxicating; and
it was no wonder that the white-crowned sparrows, Lincoln's sparrows,
the robins and wrens, and several other species, found in this spot a
pleasant place to live. One of the narrow valleys led directly up to the
base of the massive cone of the Peak, its stream fed by the snow-fields
shining in the sun. Going around by the valley of Seven Lakes, I had
walked down from the summit, but nowhere had I seen the tiny hummer
until I reached the green nook just described. Still, he sometimes
ascends to an elevation of eleven thousand feet above the level of the
sea.
_ONE OF THE SEVEN LAKES_
_PIKE'S PEAK shows dimly in the background, more plainly in the
reflection. Viewed from the peak, the lakes sparkle like opaline gems in
the sun. The waters are so clear that an inverted world is seen in their
transparent depths. The valley is an elysium for many kinds of birds,
most of them described in the text. The white-crowned sparrows love the
shores of these beautiful lakes, which mirror the blithe forms of the
birds. The pine forests of the mountain sides are vocal with the
refrains of the hermit thrushes._
[Illustration]
Our feathered dot is gorgeous with his metallic green upper parts,
bordered on the tail with purplish black, his white or grayish under
parts, and his gorget of purple which gleams in bright, varying tints in
the sun. He closely resembles our common ruby-throated humming-bird,
whose gorget is intense crimson instead of purple, and who does not
venture into the Rocky Mountain region, but dwells exclusively in the
eastern part of North America. It is a little strange that the eastern
part of our country attracts only one species of the large hummer
family, while the western portion, including the Rocky Mountain region,
can boast of at least seventeen different kinds as summer residents or
visitors.
My attention was first directed to the broad-tailed hummer by seeing him
darting about in the air with the swiftness of an arrow, sipping honey
from the flower cups, and then flying to the twigs of a dead tree that
stood in the marsh. There he sat, turning his head this way and that,
and watching me with his keen little eyes. It was plain he did not trust
me, and therefore resented my presence. Though an unwelcome guest, I
prolonged my call for several hours, during which I made many heroic but
vain attempts to find his nest.
But what was the meaning of a sharp, insect-like buzzing that fell at
intervals on my ear? Presently I succeeded in tracing the sound to the
hummer, which utters it whenever he darts from his perch and back again,
especially if there is a spectator or a rival near at hand, for whom he
seems in this way to express his contempt. It is a vocal sound, or, at
least, it comes from his throat, and is much louder and sharper than the
_susurrus_ produced by the rapid movement of his wings. This I ascertain
by hearing both the sounds at the same time.
But the oddest prank which this hummer performs is to dart up in the
air, and then down, almost striking a bush or a clump of grass at each
descent, repeating this feat a number of times with a swiftness that the
eye can scarcely follow. Having done this, he will swing up into the air
so far that you can scarcely see him with the naked eye; the next moment
he will drop into view, poise in mid-air seventy-five or a hundred feet
above your head, supporting himself by a swift motion of the wings, and
simply hitching to right and left in short arcs, as if he were fixed on
a pivot, sometimes meanwhile whirling clear around. There he hangs on
his invisible axis until you grow tired watching him, and then he darts
to his favorite perch on the dead tree.
No doubt John Vance Cheney had in mind another species when he composed
the following metrical description, but it aptly characterized the
volatile broad-tail as well:
"Voyager on golden air,
Type of all that's fleet and fair,
Incarnate gem,
Live diadem,
Bird-beam of the summer day,--
Whither on your sunny way?
* * * * *
Stay, forget lost Paradise,
Star-bird fallen from happy skies."
After that first meeting the broad-tailed hummers were frequently seen
in my rambles among the Rockies. In some places there were small
colonies of them. They did not always dwell together in harmony, but
often pursued one another like tiny furies, with a loud z-z-z-zip that
meant defiance and war. The swiftness of their movements often excited
my wonder, and it was difficult to see how they kept from impaling
themselves on thorns or snags, so reckless were their lightning-like
passages through the bushes and trees. When four or five of them were
found in one place, they would fairly thread the air with green and
purple as they described their circles and loops and festoons with a
rapidity that fairly made my head whirl. At one place several of them
grew very bold, dashing at me or wheeling around my head, coming so
close that I could hear the _susurrus_ of their wings as well as the
sharp, challenging buzz from their throats.
Perhaps it would interest you to know where the rambler found these tiny
hummers. They were never in the dark canyons and gorges, nor in the
ravines that were heavily wooded with pine, but in the open, sunshiny
glades and valleys, where there were green grass and bright flowers. In
the upper part of both North and South Cheyenne Canyons they were
plentiful, although they avoided the most scenic parts of these
wonderful mountain gorges. Another place where they found a pleasant
summer home was in a green pocket of the mountain above Red Cliff, a
village on the western side of the great range. On descending the
mountains to the town of Glenwood, I did not find them, and therefore am
disposed to think that in the breeding season they do not choose to
dwell in too low or too high an altitude, but seek suitable places at an
elevation of from seven thousand to nine thousand feet.
_SUMMIT OF PIKE'S PEAK_
_Only a small portion of the peak is shown in the view. The
comparatively level area referred to in the text lies back of the signal
station on the crest. At a garbage heap near the building a flock of
leucostictes were seen, and the writer was told that they came there
regularly to feed. From this sublime height the American pipits rise on
resilient wings hundreds of feet into the air until they disappear in
the cerulean depths of the sky, singing all the while at "heaven's
gate."_
[Illustration]
One day, while staying at Buena Vista, Colorado, I hired a saddle-horse
and rode to Cottonwood Lake, twelve miles away, among the rugged
mountains. The valley is wide enough here to admit of a good deal of
sunshine, and therefore flowers studded the ground in places. It was
here I saw the only female broad-tailed hummer that was met with in my
rambles in the Rockies. She was flitting among the flowers, and did not
make the buzzing sound that the males produce wherever found. She was
not clad so elegantly as were her masculine relatives, for the
throat-patch was white instead of purple, and the green on her back did
not gleam so brightly. But, oddly enough, her sides and under
tail-coverts were stained with a rufous tint--a color that does not
appear at all in the costume of the male.
A curious habit of these hummers is worth describing. The males remain
in the breeding haunts until the young are out of the nest and are
beginning to be able to shift for themselves. Then the papas begin to
disappear, and in about ten days all have gone, leaving the mothers and
the youngsters to tarry about the summer home until the latter are
strong enough to make the journey to some resort lower in the mountains
or farther south. The reason the males do this is perhaps evident
enough, for at a certain date the flowers upon whose sweets the birds
largely subsist begin to grow scant, and so if they remained there
would not be enough for all.
In the San Francisco Mountains of Arizona, Doctor Merriam found the
broad-tails very abundant in the balsam timber and the upper part of the
pine belt, where they breed in the latter part of July; after which they
remain in that region until the middle of September, even though the
weather often becomes quite frosty at night. At break of day, in spite
of the cold, they will gather in large flocks at some spring to drink
and bathe. Doctor Merriam says about them at such times:
"They were like swarms of bees, buzzing about one's head and darting
to and fro in every direction. The air was full of them. They would
drop down to the water, dip their feet and bellies, and rise and
shoot away as if propelled by an unseen power. They would often dart
at the face of an intruder as if bent on piercing the eye with their
needle-like bills, and then poise for a moment almost within reach
before turning, when they were again lost in the busy throng.
Whether this act was prompted by curiosity or resentment I was not
able to ascertain."
As has already been said, there is not always unruffled peace in the
hummer family. Among the Rocky Mountains, and especially on the western
side of the range, there dwells another little hummer called the rufous
humming-bird, because the prevailing color of his plumage is reddish,
and between this family and the broad-tails there exists a bitter feud.
When, in the migrating season, a large number of both species gather
together in a locality where there is a cluster of wild-flowers, the
picture they make as they dart to and fro and bicker and fight for some
choice blossom, their metallic colors flashing in the sun, is so
brilliant as never to be forgotten by the spectator who is fortunate
enough to witness it.
[Illustration: "_Pike's Peak in cloudland_"]
OVER THE DIVIDE AND BACK
One June day a Denver & Rio Grande train bore the bird-lover from
Colorado Springs to Pueblo, thence westward to the mountains, up the
Grand Canyon of the Arkansas River, through the Royal Gorge, past the
smiling, sunshiny upper mountain valleys, over the Divide at Tennessee
Pass, and then down the western slopes to the next stopping-place, which
was Red Cliff, a village nestling in a deep mountain ravine at the
junction of Eagle River and Turkey Creek. The following day, a little
after "peep o' dawn," I was out on the street, and was impressed by a
song coming from the trees on the acclivity above the village. "Surely
that is a new song," I said to myself; "and yet it seems to have a
familiar air." A few minutes of hard climbing brought me near enough to
get my glass on the little lyrist, and then I found it was only the
house-wren! "How could you be led astray by so familiar a song?" you
inquire. Well, that is the humiliating part of the incident, for I have
been listening to the house-wren's gurgling sonata for some twenty
years--rather more than less--and should have recognized it at once;
only it must be remembered that I was in a strange place, and had my
ears and eyes set for avian rarities, and therefore blundered.[5]
[5] On this incident I quote a personal note from my friend, Mr.
Aiken: "The wren of the Rockies is the western house-wren, but is
the same form as that found in the Mississippi Valley. It is quite
possible that a difference in song may occur, but I have not noticed
any."
[Illustration: _Cliff-Swallows_
"_On the rugged face of a cliff_"]
To my surprise, I found many birds on those steep mountain sides, which
were quite well timbered. Above the village a colony of cliff-swallows
had a nesting place on the rugged face of a cliff, and were soaring
about catching insects and attending to the wants of their greedy young.
Besides the species named, I here found warbling vireos, broad-tailed
humming-birds, western nighthawks, ruby-crowned kinglets, magpies,
summer warblers, mountain chickadees, western wood-pewees, Louisiana
tanagers, long-crested jays, kingfishers, gray-headed juncos,
red-shafted flickers, pygmy nuthatches, house-finches, mountain jays,
and Clarke's nutcrackers. The only species noted here that had not
previously been seen east of the Divide was the pygmy nuthatch, a little
bird which scales the trunks and branches of trees like all his family,
but which is restricted to the Rocky Mountains. Like the white-breasted
nuthatch, he utters an alto call, "Yang! yang! yang!" only it is soft
and low--a miniature edition of the call of its eastern relative.
A mountain chickadee's nest was also found, and here I heard for the
first time one of these birds sing. Its performance was quite an
affecting little minor whistle, usually composed of four distinct notes,
though sometimes the vocalist contented himself with a song of two or
three syllables. The ordinary run might be represented phonetically in
this way, "Phee, ph-e-e-e, phe-phe," with the chief emphasis on the
second syllable, which is considerably prolonged. The song is quite
different from that of the black-capped chickadee both in the intoning
and the technical arrangement, while it does not run so high in the
scale, nor does it impress me as being quite so much of a minor strain,
if such a distinction can be made in music. Both birds' tunes, however,
have the character of being whistled.
Glenwood is a charming summer resort in Colorado on the western side of
the Rocky Mountain range, and can be reached by both the Denver & Rio
Grande and the Colorado Midland Railways. Beautifully situated in an
open mountain valley, it possesses many attractions in the way of
natural scenery, while the cool breezes blow down from the snow-mantled
ranges gleaming in the distance, and the medicinal springs draw many
tourists in search of health and recuperation.
My purpose, however, in visiting this idyllic spot--I went there from
Red Cliff--was not primarily to view the scenery, nor to make use of the
healing waters, but to gratify my thirst for bird-lore. Having spent
some weeks in observing the avi-fauna east of the range, I had a
curiosity to know something of bird life west of the great chain of
alpine heights, and therefore I selected Glenwood as a fertile field in
which to carry on some investigations. While my stay at this resort was
all too short, it was of sufficient length to put me in possession of a
number of facts that may prove to be of general interest.
For one thing I learned, somewhat to my surprise, that the avian fauna
on both sides of the Divide is much the same. Indeed, with one
exception--to be noted more at length hereafter--I found no birds on
the western side that I had not previously seen on the eastern side,
although a longer and minuter examination would undoubtedly have
resulted in the discovery of a few species that are peculiar to the
regions beyond the range. In the extreme western and southwestern
portions of Colorado there are quite a number of species that are seldom
or never seen in the eastern part of the State. However, keeping to the
mountainous districts, and given the same altitude and other conditions,
you will be likely to find the same kinds of feathered folk on both
sides of the range. A few concrete cases will make this statement clear.
The elevation of Glenwood is five thousand seven hundred and fifty-eight
feet; that of Colorado Springs, five thousand nine hundred and
ninety-two feet; and the climatic conditions otherwise are practically
the same. Hence at both places the following species were found: Lazuli
buntings, Arkansas goldfinches, American goldfinches, western
wood-pewees, Arkansas kingbirds, Bullock's orioles, grassfinches, and
catbirds. At the same time there were a number of species in both
localities that have a more extensive vertical range, as, for example,
the western robins, which were seen in many places from the bases of the
mountains up to the timber-line, over eleven thousand five hundred feet
above sea-level.
_ROYAL GORGE_
_In the Grand Canyon of the Arkansas River. In canyons like this, their
walls rising almost vertically from one thousand to fifteen hundred
feet, few birds are to be seen. Occasionally a dove will fly from one
side of the gorge to the other before the scurrying train. From below a
magpie or a Clark's crow may sometimes be seen flying overhead across
the fearful chasm from one wall to the other, turning its head at
intervals as if to inspect and question the spectator over a thousand
feet below._
[Illustration]
The presence of practically the same avian fauna on both sides of the
great range suggests some speculations as to their movements in the
migrating season. Do those on the western side of the mountains travel
over the towering summits from the eastern plains? Or do they come up
from their southern winter homes by way of the valleys and plains west
of the range? Undoubtedly the latter is the correct surmise, for there
were birds at Glenwood that are never known to ascend far into the
mountains, and should they attempt to cross the Divide in the early
spring, they would surely perish in the intense cold of those elevated
regions, where snow often falls even in June, July, and August. One can
easily imagine some of the eastern and western residents meeting in the
autumn on the plains at the southern extremity of the mountain range,
dwelling together in some southern locality throughout the winter, and
then, when spring approaches, taking their separate routes, part going
east and part west of the range, for their breeding haunts in the North.
More than likely they do not meet again until the following autumn.
There are individuals, doubtless, that never catch a glimpse of the
western side of the great American watershed, while others are deprived
of the privilege of looking upon the majestic panoramas of the eastern
side.
What has just been said applies, of course, only to those species that
prefer to dwell in the lower altitudes. There are other species that
find habitats to their taste in the most elevated localities, ranging
at will in the summer time over the bald summits in the regions of
perpetual snow. Among these may be mentioned the brown-capped
leucostictes, the American pipits, the ravens, and Brewer's blackbirds.
These species will often have the privilege of looking upon the scenery
on both sides of the range, and you and I can scarcely repress a feeling
of envy when we think of their happy freedom, and their frequent
opportunities to go sightseeing.
While taking an early morning stroll along one of the streets of
Glenwood, I caught sight of a new member of the phoebe family, its
reddish breast and sides differentiating it from the familiar phoebe
of the East. Afterwards I identified it as Say's phoebe, a distinctly
western species. Its habits are like those of its eastern relative. A
pair of Say's phoebes had placed their nest on a beam of a veranda,
near the roof, where they could be seen carrying food to their young. My
notes say nothing of their singing a tune or even uttering a chirp. This
was my first observation of Say's phoebe, although, as will be seen, I
subsequently saw one under somewhat peculiar circumstances.
Having spent all the time I could spare at Glenwood, one morning I
boarded the eastward-bound train, and was soon whirling up through the
sublime canyons of Grand and Eagle Rivers, keeping on the alert for such
birds as I could see from the car-window. Few birds, as has been said,
can be seen in the dark gorges of the mountains, the species that are
most frequently descried being the turtle doves, with now and then a
small flock of blackbirds. The open, sunlit valleys of the upper
mountains, watered by the brawling streams, are much more to the liking
of many birds, especially the mountain song-sparrows, the white-crowned
sparrows, the green-tailed towhees, and Audubon's and Wilson's warblers.
Up, up, for many miles the double-headed train crept, tooting and
puffing hard, until at length it reached the highest point on the route,
which is Tennessee Pass, through the tunnel of which it swept with a
sullen roar, issuing into daylight on the eastern side, where the waters
of the streams flow eastward instead of westward. The elevation of this
tunnel is ten thousand four hundred and eighteen feet, which is still
about a thousand feet below the timber-line. A minute after emerging
from the tunnel's mouth I caught sight of a red-shafted flicker which
went bolting across the narrow valley. The train swept down the valley
for some miles, stopped long enough to have another engine coupled to
the one that had brought us down from the tunnel, then wheeled to the
left and began the ascent to the city of Leadville. This city is
situated on a sloping plain on the mountain side, in full view of many
bald mountain peaks whose gorges are filled with deep snow-drifts
throughout the summer. For some purposes Leadville may be an exceedingly
desirable city, but it has few attractions for the ornithologist. I took
a long walk through a part of the city, and, whether you will believe it
or not, I did not see a single bird outside of a cage, not even a
house-finch or an English sparrow, nor did I see one tree in my entire
stroll along the busy streets. The caged birds seen were a canary and a
cardinal, and, oddly enough, both of them were singing, mayhap for very
homesickness.
Why should a bird student tarry here? What was there to keep him in a
birdless place like this? I decided to leave at once, and so, checking
my baggage through to Buena Vista, I started afoot down the mountain
side, determined to walk to Malta, a station five miles below, observing
the birds along the way. Not a feathered lilter was seen until I had
gone about a mile from Leadville, when a disconsolate robin appeared
among some scraggy pine bushes, not uttering so much as a chirp by way
of greeting.
A few minutes later I heard a vigorous and musical chirping in the pine
bushes, and, turning aside, found a flock of small, finch-like birds.
They flitted about so rapidly that it was impossible to get a good view
of them with my glasses; but such glimpses as I obtained revealed a
prevailing grayish, streaked with some darker color, while a glint of
yellow in their wings and tails was displayed as the birds flew from
bush to bush. When the wings were spread, a narrow bar of yellow or
whitish-yellow seemed to stretch across them lengthwise, giving them a
gauzy appearance. The birds remained together in a more or less compact
flock. They uttered a loud, clear chirp that was almost musical, and
also piped a quaint trill that was almost as low and harsh as that of
the little clay-colored sparrow, although occasionally one would lift
his voice to a much higher pitch. What were these tenants of the dry and
piney mountain side? They were pine siskins, which I had ample
opportunity to study in my rambles among the mountains in 1901.
[Illustration: _Pine Siskins_]
A mile farther down, a lone mountain bluebird appeared in sight, perched
on a gray stump on the gray hillside, and keeping as silent as if it
were a crime in bluebird-land to utter a sound. This bird's breeding
range extends from the plains to the timber-line; and he dwells on both
sides of the mountains, for I met with him at Glenwood. About a half
mile above Malta a western nighthawk was seen, hurtling in his
eccentric, zigzag flight overhead, uttering his strident call, and
"hawking for flies," as White of Selborne would phrase it. A western
grassfinch flew over to some bushes with a morsel in its bill, but I
could not discover its nest or young, search as I would. Afterwards it
perched on a telegraph wire and poured out its evening voluntary, which
was the precise duplicate of the trills of the grassfinches of eastern
North America. There seems to be only a slight difference between the
eastern and western forms of these birds, so slight, indeed, that they
can be distinguished only by having the birds in hand.
Turtle doves were also plentiful in the valley above Malta, as they were
in most suitable localities. Here were also several western robins, one
of which saluted me with a cheerful carol, whose tone and syllabling
were exactly like those of the merry redbreast of our Eastern States. I
was delighted to find the sweet-voiced white-crowned sparrows tenants of
this valley, although they were not so abundant here as they had been a
little over a week before in the hollows below the summit of Pike's
Peak. But what was the bird which was singing so blithely a short
distance up the slope? He remained hidden until I drew near, when he
ran off on the ground like a frightened doe, and was soon ensconced in a
sage bush. Note his chestnut crest and greenish back. This is the
green-tailed towhee. He is one of the finest vocalists of the Rocky
Mountains, his tones being strong and well modulated, his execution
almost perfect as to technique, and his entire song characterized by a
quality that might be defined as human expressiveness.
A pair of western chipping sparrows were feeding their young in one of
the sage bushes. I hoped to find a nest, but my quest simply proved that
the bantlings had already left their nurseries. It was some
satisfaction, however, to establish the fact at first hand that the
western chipping sparrows breed at an elevation of nine thousand five
hundred and eighty feet above sea-level.
While strolling about a short distance above the town, I discovered an
underground passage leading to some of the factories, or perhaps the
smelting works, a few miles farther up the valley. The over-arching
ground and timbers forming the roof were broken through at various
places, making convenient openings for the unwary pedestrian to tumble
through should he venture to stroll about here by night. Suddenly a
little broad-shouldered bird appeared from some mysterious quarter, and
flitted silently about from bush to bush or from one tussock of grass to
another. To my surprise, he presently dropped into one of the openings
of the subterranean passage, disappeared for a few moments, and then
emerged from another opening a little farther away. The bird--let me say
at once--was Say's phoebe, with which, as previously told, I made
acquaintance at Glenwood. He may be recognized by the reddish or
cinnamon-brown cast of his abdomen and sides. Again and again he darted
into the passage, perhaps to make sure that his bairns had not been
kidnapped, and then came up to keep a vigilant eye on his visitor, whom
he was not wholly disposed to trust. I am not sure that there was a nest
in the subterranean passage, as my time was too short to look for it.
Others may not regard it as an important ornithological discovery, and I
do not pretend that it was epoch-making, but to me it was at least
interesting to find this species, which was new to me, dwelling at an
elevation of five thousand seven hundred and fifty-eight feet on the
western side of the range, and on the eastern side at an elevation of
nine thousand five hundred and eighty feet. Nowhere else in my
peregrinations among the Rockies did I so much as catch a glimpse of
Say's phoebe.[6]
[6] In 1901 this bird was seen by me in South Park, and its quaint
whistle was heard,--it says _Phe-by_, but its tone and expression
are different from those of its eastern relative. See the chapter
entitled "Pleasant Outings."
With the exception of some swallows circling about in the air, I saw no
other birds during my brief stay at Malta. I was sorely disappointed in
not being able to find accommodation at this place, for it had been my
intention to remain here for the night, and walk the next day to a
station called Granite, some seventeen miles farther down the valley,
making observations on bird life in the region by the way. To this day I
regret that my calculations went "agley"; but I was told that
accommodation was not to be secured at Malta "for love or money," and so
I shook the dust from my feet, and boarded an evening train for my next
stopping-place, which was Buena Vista.
The elevation of this beautiful mountain town is seven thousand nine
hundred and sixty-seven feet. It nestles amid cottonwood trees and green
meadows in a wide valley or park, and is flanked on the east by the
rolling and roaring Arkansas River, while to the west the plain slopes
up gradually to the foothills of the three towering college
peaks,--Harvard, Yale, and Princeton,--crowned all the year with snow.
And here were birds in plenty. Before daybreak the avian concert began
with the shrieking of the western wood-pewees--a vocal performance that
they, in their innocence, seriously mistake for melody--and continued
until night had again settled on the vale. In this place I spent three
or four days, giving myself up to my favorite study and pastime, and a
list of all the birds that I saw in the neighborhood would surprise the
reader. However, a mere catalogue would be of slight interest, I
apprehend, and therefore mention will be made only of those species
which I had not seen elsewhere, passing by such familiar feathered folk
as the Arkansas goldfinches, catbirds, western meadow-larks, Brewer's
blackbirds, house-finches, green-tailed towhees, magpies, long-crested
jays, summer warblers, and many others, begging their pardon, of course,
for paying them such scant courtesy.
Early on a bright morning I was following one of the streets of the
village, when, on reaching the suburbs, I was greeted by a blithe,
dulcet trill which could come from no other vocalist than the
song-sparrow. His tones and vocalization were precisely like those of
_Melospiza fasciata_, to which I have so often listened in my native
State of Ohio. It was a dulcet strain, and stirred memories half sad,
half glad, of many a charming ramble about my eastern home when the
song-sparrows were the chief choralists in the outdoor opera festival.
Peering into the bushes that fringed the gurgling mountain brook, I soon
caught sight of the little triller, and found that, so far as I could
distinguish them with my field-glass, his markings were just like those
of his eastern relative--the same mottled breast, with the large dusky
blotch in the centre.
Delighted as I was with the bird's aria, I could not decide whether this
was the common song-sparrow or the mountain song-sparrow. Something
over a week earlier I had seen what I took to be the mountain
song-sparrow in a green nook below the summit of Pike's Peak, and had
noted his trill as a rather shabby performance in comparison with the
tinkling chansons of the song-sparrow of the East. Had I mistaken some
other bird for the mountain song-sparrow? Or was the Buena Vista bird
the common song-sparrow which had gone entirely beyond its Colorado
range? Consulting Professor W. W. Cooke's list of Colorado birds, I
found that _Melospiza fasciata_ is marked "migratory, rare," and has
been known thus far only in the extreme eastern part of the State;
whereas _Melospiza fasciata montana_ is a summer resident, "common
throughout the State in migration, and not uncommon as a breeder from
the plains to eight thousand feet."
But Professor Cooke fails to give a clue to the song of either variety,
and therefore my little problem remains unsolved, as I could not think
of taking the life of a dulcet-voiced bird merely to discover whether it
should have "_montana_" affixed to its scientific name or not. All I can
say is, if this soloist was a mountain song-sparrow, he reproduced
exactly the trills of his half-brothers of the East.[7] On the morning
of my departure from Buena Vista another song-sparrow sang his matins,
in loud, clear tones among the bushes of a stream that flowed through
the town, ringing quite a number of changes in his tune, all of them
familiar to my ear from long acquaintance with the eastern forms of the
_Melospiza_ subfamily.
[7] The problem has since been solved, through the aid of Mr. Aiken.
The Buena Vista bird was _montana_, while the bird in the Pike's
Peak hollow was Lincoln's sparrow.
How well I recall a rainy afternoon during my stay at Buena Vista! The
rain was not so much of a downpour as to drive me indoors, although it
made rambling in the bushes somewhat unpleasant. What was this haunting
song that rose from a thick copse fringing one of the babbling mountain
brooks? It mingled sweetly with the patter of the rain upon the leaves.
Surely it was the song of the veery thrush! The same rich, melodious
strain, sounding as if it were blown through a wind-harp, setting all
the strings a-tune at the same time. Too long and closely had I studied
the veery's minstrelsy in his summer haunts in northern Minnesota to be
deceived now--unless, indeed, this fertile avian region produced another
thrush which whistled precisely the same tune. The bird's alarm-call was
also like that of the veery. The few glimpses he permitted of his
flitting, shadowy form convinced me that he must be a veery, and so I
entered him in my note-book.
But on looking up the matter--for the bird student must aim at
accuracy--what was my surprise to find that the Colorado ornithologists
have decided that the veery thrush is not a resident of the State, nor
even an occasional visitor! Of course I could not set up my judgment
against that of those scientific gentlemen. But what could this minstrel
be? I wrote to my friend, Mr. Charles E. Aiken, of Colorado Springs, who
replied that the bird was undoubtedly the willow thrush, which is the
western representative of the veery. I am willing to abide by this
decision, especially as Ridgway indicates in his Manual that there is
very little difference in the coloration of the two varieties. One more
mile-post had been passed in my never-ending ornithological journey--I
had learned for myself and others that the willow thrush of the Rockies
and the veery of our Eastern and Middle States have practically the same
musical repertory, and nowhere in the East or the West is sweeter and
more haunting avian minstrelsy to be heard, if only it did not give one
that sad feeling which Heine calls _Heimweh_!
[Illustration: _Willow Thrush_]
A ROCKY MOUNTAIN LAKE
[Illustration: PLATE IV
LARK BUNTING--_Calamospiza melanocorys_
(Upper figure, male; lower, female)]
"You will find a small lake just about a mile from town. Follow the road
leading out this way"--indicating the direction--"until you come to a
red gate. The lake is private property, but you can go right in, as you
don't shoot. No one will drive you out. I think you will find it an
interesting place for bird study."
[Illustration: _Brewer's Blackbirds_
"_An interesting place for bird study_"]
The foregoing is what my landlord told me one morning at Buena Vista.
Nor did I waste time in finding the way to the lake, a small sheet of
water, as clear as crystal, embowered in the lovely park lying between
towering, snow-clad mountains. One might almost call the spot a bird's
Arcadia. In no place, in all my tramping among the Rockies, did I find
so many birds in an equal area.
In the green, irrigated meadow bordering one side of the sheet of water,
I was pleased to find a number of Brewer's blackbirds busily gathering
food in the wet grass for their young. And who or what are Brewer's
blackbirds? In the East, the purple and bronzed grackles, or crow
blackbirds, are found in great abundance; but in Colorado these birds
are replaced by Brewer's blackbirds, which closely resemble their
eastern kinsfolk, although not quite so large. The iridescence of the
plumage is somewhat different in the two species, but in both the golden
eye-balls show white at a distance. When I first saw a couple of
Brewer's blackbirds stalking featly about on a lawn at Manitou, digging
worms and grubs out of the sod, I simply put them down in my note-book
as bronzed or purple grackles--an error that had to be corrected
afterwards, on more careful examination. The mistake shows how close is
the resemblance between the two species.
The Brewer division of the family breed on the plains and in the
mountains, to an altitude of ten thousand feet, always selecting marshy
places for their early summer home; then in August and September, the
breeding season over, large flocks of old and young ascend to the
regions above the timber-line, about thirteen thousand feet above
sea-level, where they swarm over the grassy but treeless mountain sides
in search of food. In October they retire to the plains, in advance of
the austere weather of the great altitudes, and soon the majority of
them hie to a blander climate than Colorado affords in winter.
Still more interesting to me was the large colony of yellow-headed
blackbirds that had taken up their residence in the rushes and flags of
the upper end of the lake. These birds are not such exclusive westerners
as their ebon-hued cousins just described; for I found them breeding at
Lake Minnetonka, near Minneapolis, Minnesota, a few years ago, and they
sometimes straggle, I believe, as far east as Ohio. A most beautiful
bird is this member of the _Icteridae_ family, a kind of Beau Brummel
among his fellows, with his glossy black coat and rich yellow--and even
orange, in highest feather--mantle covering the whole head, neck, and
breast, and a large white, decorative spot on the wings, showing plainly
in flight. He is the handsomest blackbird with which I am acquainted.
At the time of my visit to the lake, the latter part of June, the
yellow-heads were busy feeding their young, many of which had already
left the nest. From the shore, I could see dozens of them clinging to
the reeds, several of which they would grasp with the claws of each
foot, their little legs straddled far apart, the flexile rushes
spreading out beneath their weight. There the youngsters perched,
without seeming to feel any discomfort from their strained position. And
what a racket they made when the parent birds returned from an excursion
to distant meadows and lawns, with bill-some tidbits! They were
certainly a hungry lot of bairns. When I waded out into the shallow
water toward their rushy home, the old birds became quite uneasy,
circling about above me like the red-wings, and uttering a harsh
blackbird "chack," varied at intervals by a loud, and not unmusical,
chirp.
[Illustration: _Yellow-Headed Blackbirds_
"_There the youngsters perched_"]
You should see the nest of the yellow-head. It is really a fine
structure, showing no small amount of artistic skill--a plaited cup,
looking almost as if it had been woven by human hands, the rushes of the
rim and sides folding the supporting reeds in their loops. Thus the nest
and its reedy pillars are firmly bound together. I waded out to a clump
of rushes and found one nest with three eggs in its softly felted
cup--the promise, no doubt, of a belated, or possibly a second, brood.
This mountain lake was also the abode of a number of species of ducks,
not all of which could be identified, on account of the distance they
constantly put between themselves and the observer. Flocks of them
floated like light, feathered craft upon the silvery bosom of the lake,
now pursuing one another, now drifting lazily, now diving, and anon
playing many attractive gambols.
One of the most curious ducks I have ever seen was the ruddy duck,
called in the scientific manuals _Erismatura rubida_. As I sat on a rock
on the shore, watching the aquatic fowl, one of the male ruddy ducks,
accompanied by three or four females, swam out from the reeds into an
open space where I could see him plainly with my field-glass. A
beautiful picture he presented, as he glided proudly about on the water,
surrounded by his devoted harem. Imagine, if you can, how regal he must
have appeared--his broad, flat bill, light blue, widening out at the
commissure, and seeming to shade off into the large white cheeks, which
looked like snowy puffballs on the sides of his head; his crown, black
and tapering; his neck, back, and sides, a rich, glossy brownish-red;
his lower parts, "silky, silvery white, 'watered' with dusky, yielding,
gray undulations"; and his wing-coverts and jauntily perked-up tail,
black. If that was not a picture worthy of an artist's brush I have
never seen one in the outdoor world.
No less quaint was his conduct. That he was proud and self-conscious, no
one seeing him could doubt; and it was just as plain from his
consequential mien, that he was posing before his train of plainly clad
wives, who, no doubt, looked upon him as the greatest "catch" of the
lake. Unlike most ducks, in swimming this haughty major carries his head
erect, and even bent backward at a sharp angle; and his short tail is
cocked up and bent forward, so that his glossy back forms a graceful
half-circle or more, and does not slope downward, as do the backs of
most ducks on the water.
Of all the odd gestures, this fellow's carried off the palm. He would
draw his head up and back, then thrust it forward a few inches, extend
his blue bill in a horizontal line, and at the same time emit a low,
coarse squawk that I could barely hear. Oddly enough, all the females,
staid as they were, imitated their liege lord's deportment. It was their
way of protesting against my ill-bred intrusion into their demesne.
Presently a second male came out into the open space, accompanied by a
retinue of wives, and then a third emerged, similarly attended. With
this there was a challenging among the rivals that was interesting to
witness; they fairly strutted about on the water, now advancing, now
retreating, and occasionally almost, but never quite, closing in combat.
Sometimes one would pursue another for a rod or more, in a swift rush
that would make the spray fly and cut a swath on the smooth bosom of
the lake.
Several coots now appeared on the scene. Between them and the ruddy
ducks there seemed to be a feud of more or less intensity, each being on
the offensive or the defensive as the exigencies of naval warfare
demanded. Once I was moved to laughter as a coot made a fierce dash
toward one of the ducks, and was almost upon her, and I thought she was
destined to receive a severe trouncing, when she suddenly dodged her
pursuer by diving. He just as suddenly gave up the chase, looking as if
it were a case of "sour grapes," anyway.
After watching the antics of these birds for a long time, I turned my
attention to another pretty scene,--a pair of coots leading their family
of eight or ten little ones out into the clear area from their
hiding-place among the reeds, presenting a picture of unruffled domestic
bliss. How sweet and innocent the little coots were! Instead of the
black heads and necks of their parents, and the white bills and frontal
bones, these parts were tinted with red, which appeared quite bright and
gauze-like in the sunshine.
The process of feeding the juvenile birds was interesting. The parents
would swim about, then suddenly dip their heads into the water, or else
dive clear under, coming up with slugs in their bills. Turning to the
youngsters, which were always close upon their heels--or perhaps I
would better say their tails--they would hold out their bills, when the
little ones would swim up and pick off the toothsome morsel. It must not
be supposed that the bantlings opened their mouths, as most young birds
do, to receive the tidbits. No, indeed! That is not coot vogue. The
little ones picked the insects from the sides of the papa's or mamma's
beak, turning their own little heads cunningly to one side as they
helped themselves to their luncheon.
The other waterfowl of the lake acted in an ordinary way, and therefore
need no description. It was strange, however, that this was the only
lake seen in all my Rocky Mountain touring where I found waterfowl. At
Seven Lakes, Moraine Lake, and others in the vicinity of Pike's Peak,
not a duck, crane, or coot was to be seen; and the same was true of
Cottonwood Lake, twelve miles from Buena Vista, right in the heart of
the rugged mountains.
[Illustration: "_From their place among the reeds_"]
Two facts may account for the abundance of birds at the little lake near
Buena Vista; first, here they were protected from gunners and pot
hunters by the owner, whose residence commanded a full view of the whole
area; and, second, large spaces of the upper end of the lake was thickly
grown with flags and rushes, which were cut off from the shore by a
watery space of considerable breadth. In this place these birds found
coverts from enemies and suitable sites for their nests.
A BIRD MISCELLANY
It shall be my purpose in this chapter to describe with more or less
fulness a number of Rocky Mountain birds which have either not been
mentioned in previous chapters or have received only casual attention.
On reaching Colorado one is surprised to find none of our common blue
jays which are so abundant in the Eastern and Middle States. In my
numerous Rocky Mountain jaunts not one was seen. Yet this region does
not need to go begging for jays, only they belong to different groups of
the _Garrulinae_ subfamily. The most abundant and conspicuous of these
western forms are the long-crested jays, so called on account of the
long tuft of black feathers adorning the occiput. This distinguishing
mark is not like the firm pyramidal crest of the eastern jay, but is
longer and narrower, and so flexible that it sways back and forth as the
bird flits from branch to branch or takes a hop-skip-and-jump over the
ground. Its owner can raise and lower it at will.
The forehead of this jay is prettily sprinkled with white; his head and
neck are black, in decided contrast with the umber-brown of the back;
his rump and belly are pale blue, and his wings and tail are rich
indigo-blue, somewhat iridescent and widely barred with black. Thus it
will be seen that he has quite a different costume from that of our
eastern jay, with his gaudy trimmings of white and black and purplish
blue. The westerner cannot boast of _cristata's_ dressy black collar,
but otherwise he is more richly attired, although he may not be quite so
showy.
The long-crested jays have a wide range among the mountains, breeding
from the base of the foothills to the timber-line, although their nests
are not commonly found below an altitude of seven thousand feet. In many
places from nine to eleven thousand feet up the acclivities of the
mountains they were seen flitting among the pines or the quaking asps.
Like their eastern relatives, some individuals seem to prefer the
society of man, dwelling in the villages or in the vicinity of country
homes, while others choose the most secluded and solitary localities for
their habitat. The fact is, I rarely made an excursion anywhere without
sooner or later discovering that these jays had pre-empted the place for
feeding or breeding purposes, sometimes with loud objurgations bidding
me be gone, and at other times making no to-do whatever over my
intrusion. Perhaps the proximity or remoteness of their nests was the
chief cause of this variableness in their behavior.
A pretty picture is one of these jays mounting from branch to branch
around the stem of a pine tree, from the lower limbs to the top, as if
he were ascending a spiral staircase. This seems to be one of their
regulation habits when they find themselves under inspection. If you
intrude on their domestic precincts, their cry is quite harsh, and bears
no resemblance to the quaint calls of the eastern jays; nor does the
plaintive note of the eastern representative, so frequently heard in the
autumnal woods, ever issue from any of the numerous jay throats of the
West.
Far be it from me to blacken the reputation of any bird, but there is at
least circumstantial evidence that the long-crested jay, like his
eastern cousin, is a nest robber; for such birds as robins, tanagers,
flycatchers, and vireos make war upon him whenever he comes within their
breeding districts, and this would indicate that they are only too well
aware of his predatory habits. More than that, he has the sly and
stealthy manners of the sneak-thief and the brigand. Of course, he is by
no means an unmixed evil, for you will often see him leaping about on
the lawns, capturing beetles and worms which would surely be injurious
to vegetation if allowed to live and multiply.
There are other jays in the Rockies that deserve attention. The Rocky
Mountain jay--_Perisoneus canadensis capitalis_--is a bird of the higher
altitudes, remaining near the timber-line all the year round, braving
the most rigorous weather and the fiercest mountain storms during the
winter. Although not an attractive species, his hardiness invests him
with not a little interest. One can imagine him seeking a covert in the
dense pineries when a storm sweeps down from the bald, snow-mantled
summits, squawking his disapproval of the ferocity of old Boreas, and
yet able to resist his most violent onsets.
[Illustration: _The Rocky Mountain Jay_
"_Seeking a covert in the dense pineries when a storm sweeps down from
the mountains_"]
Early in April, at an altitude of from eight thousand to eleven thousand
five hundred feet, these jays begin to breed. At that height this is
long before the snow ceases to fall; indeed, on the twentieth of June,
while making the descent from Pike's Peak, I was caught in a snowfall
that gave the ground quite a frosty aspect for a few minutes. One can
readily fancy, therefore, that the nests of these birds are often
surrounded with snow, and that the bantlings may get their first view
of the world in the swirl of a snow-squall. The nests are built in pine
bushes and trees at various distances from the ground. Of all the
hurly-burlies ever heard, that which these birds are able to make when
you go near their nests, or discover them, bears off the palm, their
voices being as raucous as a buzz-saw, fairly setting your teeth on
edge.
Those of us who live in the East are so accustomed to the adjective
"blue" in connection with the jay that we are surprised to find that _P.
c. capitalis_ wears no blue whatever, but dons a sombre suit of leaden
gray, somewhat relieved by the blackish shade of the wings and tail,
with their silvery or frosted lustre. He is certainly not an attractive
bird, either in dress or in form, for he appears very "thick-headed" and
lumpish, as if he scarcely knew enough to seek shelter in a time of
storm; but, of course, a bird that contrives to coax a livelihood out of
such unpromising surroundings must possess a fine degree of
intelligence, and, therefore, cannot be so much of a dullard as his
appearance would indicate.
He has some interesting ways, too, as will be seen from the following
quotation from a Colorado writer: "White-headed, grave, and sedate, he
seems a very paragon of propriety, and if you appear to be a suitable
personage, he will be apt to give you a bit of advice. Becoming
confidential, he sputters out a lot of nonsense which causes you to
think him a veritable 'whiskey Jack.' Yet, whenever he is disposed, a
more bland, mind-your-own-business appearing bird will be hard to find;
as will also many small articles around camp after one of his visits,
for his whimsical brain has a great fancy for anything which may be
valuable to you, but perfectly useless to himself." This habit of
purloining has won him the title of "camp robber" among the people of
the Rocky Mountains.
Woodhouse's jay, also peculiar to the Rocky Mountain region, is mostly
to be found along the base of the foothills and the lower wooded
mountains. While he may be called a "blue" jay, having more of that
color in his plumage than even the long-crested, he belongs to the
_Aphelcoma_ group--that is, he is without a crest.
Every observer of eastern feathered folk is familiar with our "little
boy blue," the indigo-bird, whose song is such a rollicking and saucy
air, making you feel as if the little lyrist were chaffing you. In
Colorado, however, you do not meet this animated chunk of blue, but
another little bird that belongs to the same group, called the "painted
finches," although their plumes are not painted any more than those of
other species. This bird is the lazuli bunting. He wears a great deal of
blue, but it is azure, and not indigo, covering the head, neck, most of
the upper parts, and the lining of the wings; and, as if to give
variety to the bird's attire, the nape and back are prettily shaded with
brown, and the wings and tail with black. But his plumage is still more
variegated, for he bears a conspicuous white spot on the greater
wing-coverts, and his breast is daintily tinted with chestnut-brown,
abruptly cut off from the blue of the throat, while the remaining under
parts are snowy white. From this description it will be seen that he is
quite unlike the indigo-bird, which has no brown or white in his
cerulean attire. Handsome as Master Indigo is, the lazuli finch, with
his sextet of hues, is a more showily dressed bird; in fact, a lyric in
colors.
The habits of the two birds are quite similar. However, the lazuli
seemed to be much shyer than his relative, for the latter is a familiar
figure at the border of our eastern woodlands, about our country homes,
and even in the neighborhood of our town dwellings, when there are
bushes and trees close at hand. My saunterings among the mountains took
me into the haunts of the lazulis, but I regret to have to confess that
all my alertness was of so little avail that I saw only three males and
one female. One day, while rambling among the cottonwoods that broidered
the creek flowing south of Colorado Springs, I was brought to a
standstill by a sharp chirp, and the next moment a pair of lazulis
appeared on the lower branches and twigs of a tree. There they sat quiet
enough, watching me keenly, but allowing me to peer at them at will
with my field-glass. I could not understand why birds that otherwise
were so shy should now permit a prolonged inspection and manifest so
little anxiety; but perhaps they reasoned that they had been discovered
anyway, and there was no need of pretending that no lazulis dwelt in the
neighborhood. How elegant the little husband looked in his variegated
attire! The wife was soberly clad in warm brown, slightly streaked with
dusk, but she was trig and pretty and worthy of her more richly
apparelled spouse. In the bushes below I found a well-made nest, which I
felt morally certain belonged to the little couple that was keeping such
faithful surveillance over it. As yet it contained no eggs.
In order to make certainty doubly sure, I visited the place a week or so
later, and found that my previous conclusion had been correct. I flushed
the little madame from the nest, and saw her flit with a chirp to the
twigs above, where she sat quietly watching her visitor, exhibiting no
uneasiness whatever about her cot in the bushes with its three precious
eggs. It was pleasing to note the calmness and dignity with which she
regarded me. But where was that important personage, the little husband?
He was nowhere to be seen, although I lingered about the charmed spot
for over two hours, hoping to get at least a glimpse of him. A friend,
who understands the sly ways of the lazulis, suggested that very likely
the male was watching me narrowly all the while from a safe hiding-place
in the dense foliage of some tree not far away.
My friend told me that I would not be able to distinguish the song of
the lazuli from those of the summer and mountain warblers. We shall see
whether he was right. One evening I was searching for a couple of blue
grosbeaks at the border of Colorado Springs, where I had previously seen
them, when a loud, somewhat percussive song, much like the summer
warbler's, burst on my ear, coming from a clump of willow bushes hard by
the stream. At once I said to myself, "That is not the summer warbler's
trill. It resembles the challenging song of the indigo-bird, only it is
not quite so loud and defiant. A lazuli finch's song, or I am sadly
astray! Let me settle the question now."
I did settle it to my great satisfaction, for, after no little effort, I
succeeded in obtaining a plain view of the elusive little lyrist, and,
sure enough, it proved to be the lazuli finch. Metaphorically I patted
myself with a great deal of self-complacency, as I muttered: "The idea
of Mr. Aiken's thinking I had so little discrimination! I know that
hereafter I shall be able to detect the lazuli's peculiar intonations
every time." So I walked home in a very self-confident frame of mind. A
few days later I heard another song lilting down from the upper branches
of a small tree. "Surely that is the lazuli again," I muttered. "I know
that voice." For a while I eyed the tree, and presently caught sight of
the little triller, and behold, it was--a summer warbler! All my
self-complacency vanished in a moment; I wasn't cock-sure of anything;
and I am obliged to confess that I was led astray in a similar manner
more than once afterward. It may indicate an odd psychological condition
to make the claim; but, absurd or not, I am disposed to believe that,
whenever I really heard the lazuli, I was able to recognize his song
with a fair degree of certainty, but when I heard the summer warbler I
was thrown into more or less confusion, not being quite sure whether it
was that bird or the other.
The most satisfactory lazuli song I heard was on the western side of the
range, at the resort called Glenwood. This time, as was usually the
case, I heard the little triller before seeing him, and was sure it was
_Passerina amoena_, as the bunting strains were plainly discernible.
He was sitting on a telephone wire, and did not flit away as I stood
below and peered at him through my glass, and admired his trig and
handsome form. I studied his song, and tried to fix the peculiar
intonations in my mind, and felt positive that I could never be caught
again--but I was.[8]
[8] In the foregoing remarks the lazuli finches have been
represented as excessively shy. So they were in 1899 in the
neighborhoods then visited. Strangely enough, in the vicinity of
Denver in 1901, these birds were abundant and as easily approached
and studied as are the indigoes of the East. See the chapter
entitled, "Plains and Foothills."
The lazuli finch does not venture very high into the mountains, seldom
reaching an altitude of more than seven thousand feet. He is a lover of
the plains, the foothills, and the lower ranges of the mountains. In
this respect he differs from some other little birds, which seek a
summer home in the higher regions. On the southern slope of Pike's Peak,
a little below the timber-line, I found a dainty little bird which was a
stranger to me. It was Audubon's warbler. At first sight I decided that
he must be the myrtle warbler, but was compelled to change my conclusion
when I got a glimpse of his throat, which was golden yellow, whereas the
throat of _Dendroica coronata_ is pure white. Then, too, the myrtle
warbler is only a migrant in Colorado, passing farther north to breed.
Audubon's, it must be said, has extremely rich habiliments, his upper
parts being bluish-ash, streaked with black, his belly and under
tail-coverts white, and his breast in high feather, black, prettily
skirted with gray or invaded with white from below; but his yellow
spots, set like gleaming gold in various parts of his plumage,
constitute his most marked embellishment, being found on the crown,
rump, throat, and each side of the chest.
On my first excursion to some meadows and wooded low-grounds south of
Colorado Springs, while listening to a concert given by western
meadow-larks, my attention was attracted to a large, black bird circling
about the fields and then alighting on a fence-post. My first thought
was: "It is only a crow blackbird." But on second thought I decided that
the crow blackbird did not soar and circle about in this manner. At all
events, there seemed to be something slightly peculiar about this bird's
behavior, so I went nearer to inspect him, when he left his perch on the
post, flapped around over the meadow, and finally flew to a large,
partially decayed cottonwood tree in a pasture field. If I could believe
my eyes, he clung to the upright stems of the branches after the style
of a woodpecker! That was queer indeed--a woodpecker that looked
precisely like a blackbird! Such a featherland oddity was certainly
foreign to any of my calculations; for, it must be remembered, this was
prior to my making acquaintance with Williamson's sapsucker.
Closer inspection proved that this bird was actually hitching up and
down the branches of the tree in the regular woodpecker fashion.
Presently he slipped into a hole in a large limb, and the loud, eager
chirping of young birds was heard. It was not long before his mate
appeared, entered the cavity, and fed the clamorous brood. The birds
proved to be Lewis's woodpeckers, another distinctly western type. My
field-glass soon clearly brought out their peculiar markings.
A beautiful bird-skin, bought of Mr. Charles E. Aiken, now lies on my
desk and enables me to describe the fine habiliments of this kind from
an actual specimen. His upper parts are glossy black, the sheen on the
back being greenish, and that on the wings and tail bluish or purplish,
according to the angle of the sun's light; a white collar prettily
encircles the neck, becoming quite narrow on the nape, but widening out
on the side so as to cover the entire breast and throat. This pectoral
shield is mottled with black and lightly stained with buff in spots; the
forehead, chin, superciliary line, and a broad space on the cheek are
dyed a deep crimson; and, not least by any means, the abdomen is washed
with pink, which is delicately stencilled with white, gray, and buff. A
most gorgeous bird, fairly rivalling, but not distancing, Williamson's
sapsucker.
By accident I made a little discovery relative to the claws of this
woodpecker which, I suppose, would be true of all the _Picidae_ family.
The claws of the two fore toes are sharply curved and extremely acute,
making genuine hooks, so that when I attempt to pass my finger over them
the points catch at the skin. Could a better hook be contrived for
enabling the bird to clamber up the trunks and branches of trees? But
note: the claws of the two hind toes are not so sharply decurved, nor
so acute at the points, the finger slipping readily over them. Who can
deny the evidence of design in nature? The fore claws are highly
specialized for clinging, the very purpose for which they are needed,
while the hind claws, being used for a different purpose--only that of
support--are moulded over a different pattern.
Like our common red-head, this bird has the habit of soaring out into
the air and nabbing insects on the wing. The only other pair of these
woodpeckers I was so fortunate as to meet with were found in the ravine
leading up from Buena Vista to Cottonwood Lake.[9] Their nest was in a
dead tree by the roadside. While the first couple had been entirely
silent, one of the second pair chirped somewhat uneasily when I lingered
beneath his tree, suspecting, no doubt, that I had sinister designs upon
his nest. Unlike some of their kinsmen, these pickers of wood seem to be
quiet and dignified, not given to much demonstration, and are quite
leisurely in their movements both on the branch and on the wing.
[9] Two years later a pair were seen on a mountain near Golden,
Colorado, and probably twenty individuals were watched a long time
from a canyon above Boulder as they circled gracefully over the
mountains, catching insects on the wing.
One day, when walking up Ute Pass, celebrated both for its magnificent
scenery and its Indian history, I first saw the water-ousel. I had been
inspecting Rainbow Falls, and was duly impressed with its
attractiveness. Thinking I had lingered long enough, I turned away and
clambered up the rocky wall below the falls towards the road above. As I
did so, a loud, bell-like song rang above the roar of the water. On
looking down into the ravine, I saw a mouse-colored bird, a little
smaller than the robin, his tail perked up almost vertically, scuttling
about on the rocks below and dipping his body in an expressive way like
the "tip-up" sandpiper. Having read about this bird, I at once
recognized it as the water-ousel. My interest in everything else
vanished. This was one of the birds I had made my pilgrimage to the
Rockies to study. It required only a few minutes to scramble down into
the ravine again.
Breathlessly I watched the little bird. Its queer teetering is like that
of some of the wrens, accentors, and water-thrushes. Now it ran to the
top of a rock and stood dipping and eying me narrowly, flirting its
bobby tail; now it flew to one of the steep, almost vertical walls of
rock and scrambled up to a protuberance; then down again to the water;
then, to my intense delight, it plunged into the limpid stream, and came
up the next moment with a slug or water-beetle in its bill. Presently it
flew over to the opposite wall, its feet slipping on the wet rocks, and
darted into a small crevice just below the foot of the falls, gave a
quick poke with its beak and flitted away--minus the tidbit it had held
in its bill.
_RAINBOW FALLS_
_When the sun strikes the spray and mist at the proper angle, a
beautiful rainbow is painted on the face of the falls. At the time of
the author's visit to this idyllic spot a pair of water-ousels had
chosen it for a summer residence. They flew from the rocks below to the
top of the falls, hugging close to the rushing torrent. In returning,
they darted in one swift plunge from the top to the bottom, alighting on
the rocks below. With the utmost abandon they dived into the seething
waters at the foot of the falls, usually emerging with a slug or beetle
in their bills for the nestlings. Shod with tall rubber boots, the
writer waded close up to the foot of the falls in search of the dipper's
nest, which was set in a cleft of the rocks a few inches above the
water, in the little shadowed cavern at the left of the stream. The
pointed rock wrapped in mist, almost in the line of the plunging tide,
was a favorite perch for the dippers._
[Illustration]
Ah! my propitious stars shone on me that day with special favor. I had
found not only the water-ousel itself, but also its nest. Suddenly
water-ousel number two, the mate of number one, appeared on the scene,
dipped, scanned me closely, flew to the slippery wall, darted to the
cranny, and deposited its morsel, as its spouse had done. This time I
heard the chirping of the youngsters. Before examining the nest I
decided to watch the performances of the parent birds, which soon cast
off all the restraint caused for a moment by my presence, taking me, no
doubt, for the ordinary sightseer who overlooks them altogether.
Again and again the birds plunged into the churning flood at the foot of
the falls, sometimes remaining under water what seemed a long while, and
always coming to the surface with a delicacy for the nestlings. They
were able to dip into the swift, white currents and wrestle with them
without being washed away. Of course, the water would sometimes carry
them down stream, but never more than a few inches, and never to a point
where they could be injured. They were perfect masters of the situation.
They simply slipped in and out like living chunks of cork. Their coats
were waterproof, all they needed to do being to shake off the crystal
drops now and then.
Their flight up the almost perpendicular face of the falls was one of
graceful celerity. Up, up, they would mount only a few inches from the
dashing current, and disappear upstream in search of food. In returning,
they would sweep down over the precipitous falls with the swiftness of
arrows, stopping themselves lightly with their outspread wings before
reaching the rocks below. From a human point of view it was a frightful
plunge; from the ousel point of view it was an every-day affair.
[Illustration: _Water-Ousel_
"_Up, up, only a few inches from the dashing current_"]
After watching the tussle between ousel and water for a long time, I
decided to take a peep at their nursery. In order to do this I was
compelled to wade into the stream a little below the falls, through mist
and spray; yet such humid quarters were the natural habitat and
playground of these interesting cinclids. And there the nest was, set in
a cleft about a foot and a half above the water, its outer walls kept
moist by the spray which constantly dashed against them from the falls.
The water was also dripping from the rock that over-hung the nest and
formed its roof. A damp, uncanny place for a bird's domicile, you would
naturally suppose, but the little lovers of cascades knew what they were
about. Only the exterior of the thick, moss-covered walls were moist.
Within, the nest was dry and cosey. It was an oval structure, set in its
rocky cleft like a small oven, with an opening at the front. And there
in the doorway cuddled the two fledglings, looking out at the dripping
walls and the watery tumult, but kept warm and comfortable. I could not
resist touching them and caressing their little heads, considering it
quite an ornithological triumph for one day to find a pair of
water-ousels, discover a nest, and place my finger upon the crowns of
the nestlings.
Scores of tourists visited the famous falls every day, some of them
lingering long in the beautiful place, and yet the little ousels had
gone on with their nest-building and brood-rearing, undisturbed by human
spectators. I wondered whether many of the visitors noticed the birds,
and whether any one but myself had discovered their nest. Indeed, their
little ones were safe enough from human meddling, for one could not see
the nest without wading up the stream into the sphere of the flying
mists.
The natural home of _Cinclus mexicanus_ is the Rocky Mountains, to which
he is restricted, not being known anywhere else on this continent. He is
the only member of the dipper family in North America. There is one
species in South America, and another in Europe. He loves the mountain
stream, with its dashing rapids and cascades. Indeed, he will erect his
oven-like cottage nowhere else, and it must be a fall and not a mere
ripple or rapid. Then from this point as a centre--or, rather, the
middle point of a wavering line--he forages up and down the babbling,
meandering brook, feeding chiefly, if not wholly, on water insects.
Strange to say, he never leaves the streams, never makes excursions to
the country roundabout, never flies over a mountain ridge or divide to
reach another valley, but simply pursues the winding streams with a
fidelity that deserves praise for its very singleness of purpose. No
"landlubber" he. It is said by one writer that the dipper has never been
known to alight on a tree, preferring a rock or a piece of driftwood
beside the babbling stream; yet he has the digits and claws of the
passeres, among which he is placed systematically. He is indeed an
anomaly, though a very engaging one. Should he wish to go to another
canyon, he will simply follow the devious stream he is on to its junction
with the stream of the other valley; then up the second defile. His
flight is exceedingly swift. His song is a loud, clear, cheerful strain,
the very quintessence of gladness as it mingles with the roar of the
cataracts.
Farther up Ute Pass I found another nest, which was placed right back
of a cascade, so that the birds had to dash through a curtain of spray
to reach their cot. They also were feeding their young, and I could see
them standing on a rock beneath the shelf, tilting their bodies and
scanning me narrowly before diving into the cleft where the nest was
hidden. This nest, being placed back of the falls, could not be reached.
In Bear Creek canyon I discovered another inaccessible nest, which was
placed in a fissure at the very foot of the falls and only an inch or
two above the agitated waters. There must have been a cavity running
back into the rock, else the nest would have been kept in a soggy
condition all the time.
Perhaps the most interesting dipper's nest I found was one at the
celebrated Seven Falls in the south Cheyenne Canyon. On the face of the
cliff by the side of the lowest fall there was a cleft, in which the
nest was placed, looking like a large bunch of moss and grass. My glass
brought the structure so near that I could plainly see three little
heads protruding from the doorway. There were a dozen or more people
about the falls at the time, who made no attempt at being quiet, and yet
the parent birds flew fearlessly up to the nest with tidbits in their
bills, and were greeted with loud, impatient cries from three hungry
mouths, which were opened wide to receive the food. The total plunge of
the stream over the Seven Falls is hundreds of feet, and yet the adult
birds would toss themselves over the abyss with reckless abandon, stop
themselves without apparent effort in front of their cleft, and thrust
the gathered morsels into the little yellow-lined mouths. It was an
aerial feat that made our heads dizzy. This pair of birds did not fly up
the face of the falls in ascending to the top, as did those at Rainbow
Falls, but clambered up the wall of the cliff close to the side of the
roaring cataract, aiding themselves with both claws and wings. When
gathering food below the falls, they would usually, in going or
returning, fly in a graceful curve over the heads of their human
visitors.
[Illustration: _Water-Ousel_
"_Three hungry mouths, which were opened wide to receive the food_"]
Although the dipper is not a web-footed bird, and is not classed by the
naturalists among the aquatic fowl, but is, indeed, a genuine passerine,
yet he can swim quite dexterously on the surface of the water. However,
his greatest strength and skill are shown in swimming under water, where
he propels himself with his wings, often to a considerable distance,
either with or against the current. Sometimes he will allow the current
to carry him a short distance down the stream, but he is always able to
stop himself at a chosen point. "Ever and anon," says Mr. John Muir, in
his attractive book on "The Mountains of California," "while searching
for food in the rushing stream, he sidles out to where the too powerful
current carries him off his feet; then he dexterously rises on the wing
and goes gleaning again in shallower places." So it seems that our
little acrobat is equal to every emergency that may arise in his
adventurous life.
In winter, when the rushing mountain streams are flowing with the sludge
of the half-melted snow, so that he cannot see the bottom, where most of
his delicacies lie, he betakes himself to the quieter stretches of the
rivers, or to the mill ponds or mountain lakes, where he finds clearer
and smoother water, although a little deeper than he usually selects.
Such weather does not find him at the end of his resources; no, indeed!
Having betaken himself to a lake, he does not at once plunge into its
depths after the manner of a duck, but finding a perch on a snag or a
fallen pine, he sits there a moment, and then, flying out thirty or
forty yards, "he alights with a dainty glint on the surface, swims
about, looks down, finally makes up his mind, and disappears with a
sharp stroke of his wings." So says Mr. John Muir, who continues: "After
feeding for two or three minutes he suddenly reappears, showers the
water from his wings with one vigorous shake, and rises abruptly into
the air as if pushed up from beneath, comes back to his perch, sings a
few minutes, and goes out to dive again; thus coming and going, singing
and diving, at the same place for hours."
The depths to which the cinclid dives for the food on the bottom is
often from fifteen to twenty feet. When he selects a river instead of a
lake for his winter bathing, its waters, like those of the shallower
streams, may also contain a large quantity of sludge, thus rendering
them opaque even to the sharp little eyes of the dipper. Then what does
he do? He has a very natural and cunning way of solving this problem; he
simply seeks a deep portion of the river and dives through the turbid
water to the clear water beneath, where he can plainly see the "goodies"
on the bottom.
It must not be thought that this little bird is mute amid all the watery
tumult of his mountain home, for he is a rare vocalist, his song
mingling with the ripple and gurgle and roar of the streams that he
haunts. Nor does he sing only in the springtime, but all the year round,
on stormy days as well as fair. During Indian summer, when the streams
are small, and silence broods over many a mountain solitude, the song of
the ousel falls to its lowest ebb; but when winter comes and the streams
are converted into rolling torrents, he resumes his vocal efforts, which
reach their height in early summer. Thus it would seem that the bird's
mood is the gayest when his favorite stream is dashing at its noisiest
and most rapid pace down the steep mountain defiles. The clamor of the
stream often drowns the song of the bird, the movement of his mandibles
being seen when not a sound from his music-box can be heard. There must
be a feeling of fellowship between the bird and the stream he loves so
well.
[Illustration: "_No snowstorm can discourage him_"]
You will not be surprised to learn that the dipper is an extremely hardy
bird. No snowstorm, however violent, can discourage him, but in the
midst of it all he sings his most cheerful lays, as if defying all the
gods of the winds. While other birds, even the hardy nuthatches, often
succumb to discouragement in cold weather, and move about with
fluffed-up feathers, the very picture of dejection--not so the little
dipper, who always preserves his cheerful temper, and is ready to say,
in acts, if not in words: "Isn't this the jolliest weather you ever
saw?" Away up in Alaska, where the glaciers hold perpetual sway, this
bird has been seen in the month of November as glad and blithesome as
were his comrades in the summery gorges of New Mexico.
PLAINS AND FOOTHILLS
[Illustration: PLATE V
LOUISIANA TANAGER--_Pyranga ludoviciana_
(Upper figure, male; lower, female)]
The foregoing chapters contain a recital of observations made in the
neighborhood of Colorado Springs and in trips on the plains and among
the mountains in that latitude. Two years later--that is, in 1901--the
rambler's good angel again smiled upon him and made possible another
tour among the Colorado mountains. This time he made Denver, instead of
Colorado Springs, the centre of operations; nor did he go alone, his
companion being an active boy of fourteen who has a penchant for
Butterflies, while that of the writer, as need scarcely be said, is for
the Birds--in our estimation, the two cardinal B's of the English
language. Imagine two inveterate ramblers, then, with two such
enchanting hobbies, set loose on the Colorado plains and in the
mountains, with the prospect of a month of uninterrupted indulgence in
their manias!
In the account of my first visit, most of the species met with were
described in detail both as to their habits and personal appearance. In
the present record no such minutiae will be necessary so far as the same
species were observed, and therefore the chief objects of the following
chapters will be, first, to note the diversities in the avian fauna of
the two regions; second, to give special attention to such birds as
either were not seen in my first visit or were for some cause partly
overlooked; and, third, to trace the peculiar transitions in bird life
in passing from the plains about Denver to the crest of Gray's Peak,
including jaunts to several other localities.
In my rambles in the neighborhood of Denver only a few species not
previously described were observed, and yet there were some noteworthy
points of difference in the avi-fauna of the two latitudes, which are
only about seventy-five miles apart. It will perhaps be remembered that,
in the vicinity of Colorado Springs and Manitou, the pretty lazuli
buntings were quite rare and exceedingly shy, only two or three
individuals having been seen. The reverse was the case in the suburbs of
Denver and on the irrigated plains between that city and the mountains,
and also in the neighborhood of Boulder, where in all suitable haunts
the lazulis were constantly at my elbow, lavish enough of their pert
little melodies to satisfy the most exacting, and almost as familiar and
approachable as the indigo-birds of the East. It is possible that, for
the most part, the blue-coated beauties prefer a more northern latitude
than Colorado Springs for the breeding season.
At the latter place I failed to find the burrowing owl, although there
can be little doubt of his presence there, especially out on the
plains. Not far from Denver one of these uncanny, sepulchral birds was
seen, having been frightened from her tunnel as I came stalking near it.
She flew over the brow of the hill in her smooth, silent way, and
uttered no syllable of protest as I examined her domicile--or, rather,
the outside of it. Scattered about the dark doorway were a number of
bones, feathers, and the skin of a frog, telling the story of the _table
d'hote_ set by this underground dweller before her nestlings. She might
have put up the crossbones and skull as a sign at the entrance to her
burrow, or even placed there the well-known Dantean legend, "All hope
abandon, ye who enter here," neither of which would have been more
suggestive than the telltale litter piled up before her door. When I
chased her from her hiding-place, she flew down the hill and alighted on
a fence-post in the neighborhood of her nest, uttering several screechy
notes as I came near her again, as if she meant to say that I was
carrying the joke a little too far in pursuing her about. Presently she
circled away on oily wings, and I saw her no more.
[Illustration: "_The dark doorway_"]
So little enthusiasm does such a bird stir within me that I felt too
lazy to follow her about on the arid plain. It may be interesting as a
matter of scientific information to know that the burrowing owl breeds
in a hole in the ground, and keeps company with the prairie dog and the
rattlesnake, but a bird that lives in a gloomy, malodorous cave, whose
manners are far from attractive, and whose voice sounds as strident as a
buzz-saw--surely such a bird can cast no spell upon the observer who is
interested in the aesthetic side of bird nature. A recent writer, in
describing "A Buzzards' Banquet," asks a couple of pregnant questions:
"Is there anything ugly out of doors? Can the ardent, sympathetic lover
of nature ever find her unlovely?" To the present writer these questions
present no Chinese puzzle. He simply brushes all speculation and
theorizing aside by responding "Yes," to both interrogatories, on the
principle that it is sometimes just as well to cut the Gordian knot as
to waste precious time trying to untie it. The burrowing owl makes me
think of a denizen of the other side of the river Styx, and why should
one try to love that which nature has made unattractive, especially when
one cannot help one's feeling?
In the preceding chronicles no mention, I believe, has been made of one
little bird that deserves more than a mere _obiter dictum_. My first
meeting with the blithesome house-finch of the West occurred in the city
of Denver, in 1899. It could not properly be called a formal
presentment, but was none the less welcome on that account. I had
scarcely stepped out upon the busy street before my ear was accosted by
a kind of half twitter and half song that was new to me. "Surely that is
not the racket of the English sparrow; it is too musical," I remarked to
a friend walking by my side.
Peering among the trees and houses, I presently focussed my field-glass
upon a small, finch-like bird whose coat was striped with gray and
brown, and whose face, crown, breast, and rump were beautifully tinged
or washed with crimson, giving him quite a dressy appearance. What could
this chipper little city chap be, with his trig form and well-bred
manners, in such marked contrast with those of the swaggering English
sparrow? Afterwards he was identified as the house-finch, which rejoices
in the high-sounding Latin name of _Carpodacus mexicanus frontalis_. His
distribution is restricted to the Rocky Mountain district chiefly south
of the fortieth parallel of north latitude.
He is certainly an attractive species, and I wish we could offer
sufficient inducements to bring him east. A bird like him is a boon and
an ornament to the streets and parks of any city that he graces with
his presence and enlivens with his songs. No selfish recluse is he; no,
indeed! In no dark gulch or wilderness, far from human neighborhood,
does he sulkily take up his abode, but prefers the companionship of man
to the solitudes of nature, declaring in all his conduct that he likes
to be where there are "folks." In this respect he bears likeness to the
English sparrow; but let it be remembered that there the analogy stops.
Even his chirruping is musical as he flies overhead, or makes his
_caveat_ from a tree or a telegraph wire against your ill-bred
espionage. He and his plainly clad little spouse build a neat cottage
for their bairns about the houses, but do not clog the spouting and make
themselves a nuisance otherwise, as is the habit of their English
cousins.
This finch is a minstrel, not of the first class, still one that merits
a high place among the minor songsters; and, withal, he is generous with
his music. You might call him a kind of urban Arion, for there is real
melody in his little score. As he is an early riser, his matin
voluntaries often mingled with my half-waking dreams in the morning at
dawn's peeping, and I loved to hear it too well to be angry for being
aroused at an unseasonable hour. The song is quite a complicated
performance at its best, considerably prolonged and varied, running up
and down the chromatic scale with a swing and gallop, and delivered
with great rapidity, as if the lyrist were in a hurry to have done, so
that he could get at something else.
In my rambles he was found not only in the cities of the plains (Denver,
Colorado Springs, and Pueblo), but also in many of the mountain towns
and villages visited, Leadville, over ten thousand feet skyward, being,
I believe, one of the exceptions, while Silver Plume and Graymont were
others. He does not fancy altitudes, I take it, much over eight thousand
feet. In the villages of Red Cliff and Glenwood, both beyond the
continental divide, he was the same sprightly citizen, making himself
very much at home.
Much as this finch cherishes the society of man, he is quite wary and
suspicious, and does not fancy being watched. As long as you go on your
way without seeming to notice him, he also goes his way, coming into
plain sight and chirping and singing; but just stop to watch him with
your binocular, and see how quickly he will take alarm, dart away, and
ensconce himself behind a clump of foliage, uttering a protest which
seems to say, "Why doesn't that old fellow go about his own business?"
If in some way the American house-finch could be persuaded to come east,
and the English sparrow could be given papers of extradition, the
exchange would be a relief and a benefit to the whole country.
Some idyllic days were spent in sauntering about Golden, which keeps
guard at the entrance of Clear Creek Canyon, and has tucked itself in a
beautiful valley among the foothills, which in turn stand sentinel over
it. In the village itself and along the bush-fringed border of the creek
below, as well as in the little park at its border, there were many
birds, nearly all of which have been described in the previous chapters.
However, several exceptions are worthy of note. A matted copse a mile
and a half below the town afforded a hiding-place for three young or
female redstarts, which were "playing butterfly," as usual, and chanting
their vivacious little tunes. These and several near Boulder were the
only redstarts seen in my Colorado wanderings, although Professor Cooke
says they breed sparingly on the plains, and a little more commonly in
the mountains to an altitude of eight thousand feet, while one observer
saw a female in July at the timber-line, which is three thousand feet
above the normal range of the species. Why did not this birdlet remain
within the bounds set by the scientific guild? Suit for contempt of
court should be brought against it. Redstarts must have been very scarce
in the regions over which I rambled, else I certainly should have
noticed birds that are so fearless and so lavish of song.
One day my companion and I clambered up the steep side of a mesa some
distance below Golden--that is, the base of the mesa was below the
village, while its top towered far above it. A mesa was a structural
portion of Colorado topography that neither of the two ramblers had yet
explored, and we were anxious to know somethi
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