To flutter—and the Bird is on the Wing."
Omar Khayyám.
By the first of August the bird-lover's year is already on the wane1. In the chestnut2 grove3, where a month ago the wood thrush, the rose-breasted grosbeak, and the scarlet4 tanager were singing, the loiterer now hears nothing but the wood pewee's pensive5 whistle and the sharp monotony of the red-eyed vireo. The thrasher is silent in the berry pasture, and the bobolink in the meadow. The season of jollity is over. Orioles, to be sure, after a month of silence, again have fits of merry fifing. The field sparrow and the song sparrow are still in tune6, and the meadow lark7 whistles, though rarely. Catbirds still practice their feeble improvisations and mimicries in the thickets9 along the brooksides as evening comes on, and of the multitudes of robins10 a few are [Pg 177] certain to be heard warbling before the day is over. Goldfinches have grown suddenly numerous, or so it seems, and not infrequently one of them breaks out in musical canary-like twitterings. On moonlight evenings the tremulous, haunting cry of the screech-owl comes to your ears, always from far away, and if you walk through the chestnut grove aforesaid in the daytime you may chance to catch his faint, vibratory, tree-frog whistle. For myself, I never enter the grove without glancing into the dry top of a certain tall tree, to see whether the little rascal12 is sitting in his open door. More than half the time he is there, and always with his eye on me. What an air he has!—like a judge on the bench! If I were half as wise as he looks, these essays of mine would never more be dull. For his and all other late summer music let us be thankful; but it is true, nevertheless, that the year is waning13. How short it has been! Only the other day the concert opened, and already the performers are uneasy to be gone. They have crowded so much into so brief a space! The passion of a life-time into the quarter of a year! They are impatient to be gone, [Pg 178] I say; but who knows how many of them are gone already? Where are the blue golden-winged warblers that sang daily on the edge of the wood opposite my windows, so that I listened to them at my work? I have heard nothing of their rough dsee, dsee since the 21st of June, and in all that time have seen them but once—a single bird, a youngling of the present year, stumbled upon by accident while pushing my way through a troublesome thicket8 on the first day of August. Who knows, I say, how many such summer friends have already left us? An odd coincidence, however, warns me at this very moment that too much is not to be made of merely negative experiences; for even while I was penciling the foregoing sentence about the blue golden-wing there came through the open window the hoarse15 upward-sliding chant of his close neighbor, the prairie warbler. I have not heard that sound before since the 6th of July, and it is now the 22d of August. The singers had not gone, I knew; I saw several of them (and beautiful creatures they are!) a few days ago among the pitch pines; but why did that fellow, after being dumb for six or seven weeks, pipe [Pg 179] up at that precise moment, as if to punctuate16 my ruminations with an interrogation point? Does he like this dog-day morning, with its alternate shower and sunshine, and its constant stickiness and heat? In any case I was glad to hear him, though I cannot in the spirit of veracity17 call him a good singer. Whist! There goes an oriole, a gorgeous creature, flashing from one elm to another, and piping in his happiest manner as he flies. It might be the middle of May, to judge from his behavior. He likes dog-day weather, there can be no question of that, however the rest of the world may grumble18.
This is a time when one sees many birds, but few species. Bluebirds are several times as abundant as in June. The air is sweet with their calls at this moment, and once in a while some father of the flock lets his happiness run over in song. One cannot go far now without finding the road full of chipping sparrows, springing up in their pretty, characteristic way, and letting the breeze catch them. The fences and wayside apple-trees are lively with kingbirds and ph?bes. I am already watching the former with a kind of mournful interest. In ten days, or [Pg 180] some such matter, we shall have seen the last of their saucy19 antics. Gay tyrants20! They are among the first birds of whom I can confidently say, "They are gone;" and they seem as wide-awake when they go as when they come. Being a man, I regret their departure; but if I were a crow, I think I should be for observing the 31st of August as a day of annual jubilee21.
A few years ago, in September, I saw the white-breasted swallows congregated22 in the Ipswich dunes23,—a sight never to be forgotten. On the morning of the 9th, the fourth day of our visit, a considerable flock—but no more, perhaps, than we had been seeing daily—came skimming over the marshes25 and settled upon a sand-bar in the river, darkening it in patches. At eight o'clock, when we took the straggling road out of the hills, a good many—there might be a thousand, I guessed—sat, upon the fence wires, as if resting. We walked inland, and on our return, at noon, found, as my notes of the day express it, "an innumerable host, thousands upon thousands," about the landward side of the dunes. Fences and haycocks were covered. Multitudes were on [Pg 181] the ground,—in the bed of the road, about the bare spots in the marsh24, and on the gray faces of the hills. Other multitudes were in the bushes and low trees, literally27 loading them. Every few minutes a detachment would rise into the air like a cloud, and anon settle down again. As we stood gazing at the spectacle, my companion began chirping29 at a youngster who sat near him on a post, as one might chirp28 to a caged canary. The effect was magical. The bird at once started toward him, others followed, and in a few seconds hundreds were flying about our heads. Round and round they went, almost within reach, like a cloud of gnats30. "Stop! stop!" cried my companion; "I am getting dizzy." We stopped our squeakings, and the cloud lifted; but I can see it yet. Day after day the great concourse remained about the hills, till on the 13th we came away and left them. The old lighthouse keeper told me that this was their annual rendezvous31. He once saw them circle for a long time above the dunes, for several hours, if I remember right, till, as it seemed, all stragglers had been called in from the beach, the marsh, and the outlying grassy32 hills. Then [Pg 182] they mounted into the sky in a great spiral till they passed out of sight; and for that year there were no more swallows. This, he insisted, took place in the afternoon, "from three to four o'clock." He was unquestionably telling a straightforward33 story of what he himself had seen, but his memory may have been at fault; for I find it to be the settled opinion of those who ought to know, that swallows migrate by day and not by night, while the setting out of a great flock late in the afternoon at such a height would seem to indicate a nocturnal journey. Morning or evening, I would give something to witness so imposing34 a start.
The recollection of this seaside gathering35 raises anew in my mind the question why, if swallows and swifts migrate exclusively in the daytime, we so rarely see anything of them on the passage. Our Ipswich birds were all tree swallows,—white-breasted martins,—and might fairly be supposed to have come together from a comparatively limited extent of country. But beside tree swallows there are purple martins, barn swallows, sand martins, cliff swallows, and chimney swifts, all of which breed to the [Pg 183] northward36 of us in incalculable numbers. All of them go south between the middle of July and the first of October. But who in New England has ever seen any grand army of them actually on the wing? Do they straggle along so loosely as to escape particular notice? If so, what mean congregations like that in the Ipswich dunes? Or are their grand concerted flights taken at such an altitude as to be invisible?
On several afternoons of last September, this time in an inland country, I observed what might fairly be called a steady stream of tree swallows flying south. Twice, while gazing up at the loose procession, I suddenly became aware of a close bunch of birds at a prodigious38 height, barely visible, circling about in a way to put a count out of the question, but evidently some hundreds in number. On both occasions the flock vanished almost immediately, and, as I believed, by soaring out of sight. The second time I meant to assure myself upon this point, but my attention was distracted by the sudden appearance of several large hawks40 within the field of my glass, and when I looked again for the swallows they were [Pg 184] nowhere to be seen. Were the stragglers which I had for some time been watching, flying high, but well within easy ken26, and these dense41, hardly discernible clusters—hirundine nebul?, as it were—were all these but parts of one innumerable host, the main body of which was passing far above me altogether unseen? The conjecture42 was one to gratify the imagination. It pleased me even to think that it might be true. But it was only a conjecture, and meantime another question presented itself.
When this daily procession had been noticed for two or three afternoons, it came to me as something remarkable43 that I saw it always in the same place, or rather on the same north and south line, while no matter where else I walked, east or west, not a swallow was visible. Had I stumbled upon a regular route of swallow migration44? It looked so, surely; but I made little account of the matter till a month afterward45, when, in exactly the same place, I observed robins and bluebirds following the same course. The robins were seen October 26th, in four flocks, succeeding each other at intervals46 of a few minutes, and numbering in all about 130 [Pg 185] birds. They flew directly south, at a moderate height, and were almost certainly detachments of one body. The bluebird movement was two days later, at about the same hour, the morning being cold, with a little snow falling. This time, too, as it happened, the flock was in four detachments. Three of these were too compact to be counted as they passed; the fourth and largest one was in looser order and contained a little more than a hundred individuals. In all, as well as I could guess, there might have been about three hundred birds. They kept a straight course southward, flying high, and with the usual calls, which, in autumn at least, always have to my ears a sound of farewell. Was it a mere14 coincidence that these swallows, bluebirds, and robins were all crossing the valley just at this point?
This question, too, I count it safer to ask than to answer, but all observers, I am sure, must have remarked so much as this,—that birds, even on their migrations47, are subject to strong local preferences. An ornithologist48 of the highest repute assures me that his own experience has convinced him so strongly of this fact that if he shoots a rare [Pg 186] migrant in a certain spot he makes it a rule to visit the place again a year afterward on the same day, and, if possible, at the same hour of the day. Another friend sends me a very pretty story bearing upon the same point. The bird of which he speaks, Wilson's black-cap warbler, is one of the less common of our regular Massachusetts migrants. I count myself fortunate if I see two or three specimens49 during its spring or autumn passage. My correspondent shall tell the story for himself.
"While I was making the drawings for the 'Silva,' at the old Dwight house, I was in the habit of taking a turn every pleasant day in the gardens after my scanty51 lunch. On the 18th of May, 1887, in my daily round I saw a Wilson's black-cap for the first time in my life. He was in a bush of Spir?a media, which grew in the midst of the rockery, and allowed me to examine him at near range with no appearance of fear. Naturally I made a note of the occurrence in my diary, and talked about it with my family when I got home. The seeing of a new bird always makes a red-letter day.
"The next spring, as I was looking over [Pg 187]my notebook of the previous year, I came upon my entry of May 18th, and thought I would be on the lookout52 for a black-cap on that date. Several times during the morning I thought of the matter, and after my lunch I sauntered into the rockery just as I had done the year before. Imagine my start when there, in the very same bush, was the black-cap peering at me; and I found on looking at my watch that it was precisely53 the same hour,—half past one! I rubbed my eyes and pinched myself to make sure it was not a dream. No, it was all real. Of course, I thought the coincidence very singular, and talked about it, not only with my family, but also with other people. You must remember that I had never seen the bird elsewhere.
"Well, another spring came round. The 18th of May was fixed54 in my mind, and I thought many times of my black-cap (I called it my black-cap now), and wondered if it would keep tryst55 again. On the morning of the 18th, the first thing I thought of when I awoke was my black-cap. That forenoon I actually felt nervous as the time approached, for I felt a sort of certainty (you [Pg 188] smile) that I should see my bird again. My lunch was hastier than usual, and I was about to sally forth56 when it flashed across me—'Suppose the bird should be there again, who would believe my story? Hold! I will have a witness.' I called to Mr. J——, who was at work upstairs, and after explaining what I wanted, invited him to accompany me. We cautiously entered the rockery, and within a few minutes there flitted from a neighboring thicket into that very Spir?a bush my black-cap! I took out my watch. It was just half past one!"
My own experiences in this kind have been much less striking and dramatic than the foregoing, but I may add that a few years ago I witnessed the vernal migration in a new piece of country—ten miles or so from my old field—and found myself at a very considerable disadvantage. I had never realized till then how much accustomed I had grown to look for particular birds in particular places, and not in other places of a quite similar character.
I speak of witnessing a migration; but what we see for the most part (ducks and geese being excepted) is not the actual movement [Pg 189] northward or southward. We see the stragglers, more or less numerous, that happen to have dropped out of the procession in our immediate39 neighborhood,—a flock of sandpipers about the edge of the pond, some sparrows by the roadside, a bevy57 of warblers in the wood,—and from these signs we infer the passing of the host.
Unlike swallows, robins, bluebirds, blackbirds, and perhaps most of the sparrows, our smaller wood birds, the warblers and vireos especially, appear to move as a general thing in mixed flocks. Whenever the woods are full of them, as is the case now and then every spring and fall, one of the most striking features of the show is the number of species represented. For the benefit of readers who may never have observed such a "bird wave," or "rush," let me sketch58 hastily one which occurred a few years ago, on the 22d of September. As I started out at six o'clock in the morning, in a cool northwest wind, birds were passing overhead in an almost continuous stream, following a westerly course. They were chiefly warblers, but I noted59 one fairly large flock of purple finches. All were at a good height, [Pg 190] and the whole movement had the air of a diurnal60 migration. I could only conjecture that it was the end of the nocturnal flight, so far, at least, as the warblers were concerned; in other words, that the birds, on this particular occasion, did not finish their nightly journey till a little after sunrise. But if many were still flying, many others had already halted; for presently I came to a piece of thin, stunted61 wood by the roadside, and found in it a highly interesting company. Almost the first specimen50 I saw was a Connecticut warbler perched in full view and exposing himself perfectly62. Red-bellied nuthatches were calling, and warblers uncounted were flitting about in the trees and underbrush. A hurried search showed black-polls, black-throated greens, blue yellow-backs, one redstart, one black-and-white creeper, one Blackburnian, one black-and-yellow, one Canadian flycatcher (singing lustily), one yellow redpoll, and one clearly-marked bay-breast. The first yellow-bellied woodpecker of the season was hammering in a tree over my head, and not far away was the first flock of white-throated sparrows. After breakfast I passed the place [Pg 191]again, and the only bird to be found was one ph?be! Within half a mile of the spot, however, I came upon at least three goodly throngs63, including scarlet tanagers (all in yellow and black), black-throated blue warblers, pine warblers, olive-backed and gray-cheeked thrushes, a flock of chewinks (made up exclusively of adult males, so far as I could discover), red-eyed vireos, one solitary64 vireo, brown thrashers, with more redstarts, a second Blackburnian, and a second black-and-yellow. Every company had its complement65 of chickadees. Of the morning's forty species, thirteen were warblers; and of these thirteen, four were represented by one specimen each. For curiosity's sake I may add that a much longer walk that afternoon, through the same and other woods, was utterly66 barren. Except for two or three flocks of white-throated sparrows; there was no sign whatever that the night before had brought us a "flight."
Autumnal ornithology67 may almost be called a science by itself. Not only are birds harder to find (being silent) and harder to recognize in autumn than in spring, but their movements are in themselves more difficult [Pg 192] of observation. A few years of note-taking will put one in possession of the approximate dates of arrival of all our common vernal migrants. Every local observer will tell you when to look for each of the familiar birds of his neighborhood; but he will not be half so ready with information as to the time of the same birds' departure. Ask him about a few of the commonest,—the least flycatcher and the oven-bird, or the golden warbler and the Maryland yellow-throat. He will answer, perhaps, that he has seen Maryland yellow-throats in early October, and golden warblers in early September; but he will very likely add that these were probably voyagers from the North, and that he has never made out just when his own summer birds take their leave.
After the work of nidification is over, birds as a rule wander more or less from their breeding haunts; and even if they do not wander they are likely to become silent. If we miss them, therefore, we are not to conclude as a matter of course that they have gone south. Last year, during the early part of the season, cuckoos were unusually plentiful68, as it seemed to me. Then I [Pg 193] discovered all at once that there were none to be found. After the first of July I neither saw nor heard a cuckoo of either species! Had they moved away? I do not know; but the case may be taken as an extreme illustration of the uncertainty69 attaching to the late-summer doings of birds in general. Every student must have had experiences of a sort to make him slow to dogmatize when such points are in question. Throughout May and June, for example, he has heard and seen wood thrushes in a certain grove. After that, for a whole month, he hears and sees nothing, though he is frequently there. The thrushes have gone? So it would seem. But then, suddenly, they are singing again in the very same trees, and he is forced to conclude that they have not been away, but during their period of midsummer silence have eluded70 his notice. On the whole, therefore, after making allowance for particular cases in which we may have more precise information, it would be hard, I think, to say just when our nocturnal travelers set out on their long journey. As the poet prayed Life to do,—
[Pg 194]
They steal away, give little warning,
Choose their own time;
Say not good-night,—but in May's brighter clime
Bid us good-morning.
Their departure bereaves71 us, but, all in all, it must be accounted a blessing72. Like the falling of the leaves, it touches the heart with a pleasing sadness,—a sadness more delicious, if one is born to enjoy it, than all the merry-making of springtime. And even for the most unsentimental of naturalists73 the autumnal season has many a delightful74 hour. The year is almost done; but for the moment the whole feathered world is in motion, and the shortest walk may show him the choicest of rarities. Thanks to the passing of the birds, his local studies are an endless pursuit. "It is now more than forty years that I have paid some attention to the ornithology of this district, without being able to exhaust the subject," says Gilbert White; "new occurrences still arise as long as any inquiries75 are kept alive." A happy man is the bird-lover; always another species to look for, another mystery to solve. His expectations may never be realized; but no matter; it is the hope, not its fulfillment, [Pg 195] that makes life worth having. How can any New Englander imagine that he has exhausted76 the possibilities of existence so long as he has never seen the Lincoln finch11 and the Cape37 May warbler?
But "I speak as a fool." Our happiness, if we are bird-lovers indeed, waits not upon novelties and rarities. All such exceptional bits of private good fortune let the Fates send or withhold77 as they will. The grand spectacle itself will not fail us. Even now, through all the northern country, the procession is getting under way. For the next three months it will be passing,—millions upon millions: warblers, sparrows, thrushes, vireos, blackbirds, flycatchers, wrens78, kinglets, woodpeckers, swallows, humming-birds, hawks; with sandpipers, plovers80, ducks and geese, gulls81, and who knows how many more? Night and day, week days and Sundays, they will be flying: now singly or in little groups, and flitting from one wood or pasture to another; now in great companies, and with protracted82 all-day or all-night flights. Who could ask a better stimulus83 for his imagination than the annual southing of this mighty84 host? Each member of it [Pg 196] knows his own time and his own course. On such a day the snipe will be in such a meadow, and the golden plover79 in such a field. Some, no doubt, will lose their way. Numbers uncounted will perish by storm and flood; numbers more, alas85, by human agency. As I write, with the sad note of a bluebird in my ear, I can see the sea-beaches and the marshes lined with guns. But the army will push on; they will come to their desired haven86; for there is a spirit in birds, also, "and the inspiration of the Almighty87 giveth them understanding."
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1
wane
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| n.衰微，亏缺，变弱；v.变小，亏缺，呈下弦 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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8
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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robins
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| n.知更鸟，鸫( robin的名词复数 )；（签名者不分先后，以避免受责的）圆形签名抗议书（或请愿书） | |
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finch
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| n.雀科鸣禽(如燕雀，金丝雀等) | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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punctuate
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| vt.加标点于；不时打断 | |
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veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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jubilee
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| n.周年纪念；欢乐 | |
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congregated
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| （使）集合，聚集( congregate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dunes
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| 沙丘( dune的名词复数 ) | |
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marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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chirp
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| v.(尤指鸟)唧唧喳喳的叫 | |
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chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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gnats
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| n.叮人小虫( gnat的名词复数 ) | |
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rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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migration
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| n.迁移，移居，（鸟类等的）迁徙 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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migrations
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| n.迁移，移居( migration的名词复数 ) | |
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ornithologist
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| n.鸟类学家 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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tryst
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| n.约会；v.与…幽会 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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bevy
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| n.一群 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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diurnal
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| adj.白天的，每日的 | |
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stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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throngs
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| n.人群( throng的名词复数 )v.成群，挤满( throng的第三人称单数 ) | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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ornithology
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| n.鸟类学 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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bereaves
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| v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的第三人称单数 )；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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naturalists
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| n.博物学家( naturalist的名词复数 )；（文学艺术的）自然主义者 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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wrens
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| n.鹪鹩( wren的名词复数 ) | |
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plover
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| n.珩，珩科鸟，千鸟 | |
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plovers
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| n.珩，珩科鸟（如凤头麦鸡）( plover的名词复数 ) | |
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gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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