Some Birds of the Yellowstone 



By M. P. SKINNER 



WE often gain a wrong im- 

 pression as to the number 

 of birds within Yellowstone 

 Park, thinking them few. Heavy tim- 

 ber is seldom found to be very bird- 

 populous anywhere ; and, besides, in the 

 parks the heavy timber is where the 

 stage roads are, and the constant travel 

 frightens the birds away. For these are 

 shy birds, not the half -domesticated 

 ones of the farms and villages. An- 

 other reason for the conclusion that 

 birds are few lies in the fact that the 

 tourist travels during the heat of the 

 day when the birds are resting. Scar- 

 city, however, is more seeming than real ; 

 the birds are there — in large numbers. 

 At present one hundred and ninety- 

 seven species have been recorded. Let 

 the bird-lover go out early and walk 

 along the brush-lined brooks and 

 through the meadows, and he will find 

 birds in plenty. To be sure, there will 

 not be as many as in a cultivated sec- 

 tion; there never are. The cultivated 

 area has too many attractions in the 

 way of grains, fruits, and insects. 



Usually the first bird noticed in the 

 Yellowstone is one that is small and 

 almost black, flying along close to the 

 surface of a stream. He tries to alight 

 on a slippery rock, slides off into the 

 water, unconcernedly paddles ashore, 

 and climbs out. A close scrutiny shows 

 this oddity to resemble a wren, except 

 that he is darker, and has feet of ordi- 

 nary passerine construction and not 

 webbed. He is the dainty little "dip- 

 per," or "water ouzel," of the mountain 

 streams. If you watch him, he does 

 still more curious stunts. He sits on 

 a stone for a few moments, only his 

 white eyelid moving ; then comes to life. 



bows first toward you, then turns and 

 repeats his curtsy in the opposite direc- 

 tion, walks down the rock into the wa- 

 ter, under the water, and across the pool 

 bottom, stopping here and there for a 

 moment, and finally comes shooting up 

 to the surface as buoyant as a cork. No 

 misanthropic hermit is the dipper. 

 True, he lives alone with his family on 

 his own section of stream, which he is 

 always ready to clear of poachers by 

 force of bill and wing, but he picks out 

 the true scenic parts. A waterfall is a 

 favorite dwelling place, and I have 

 never found the nest anywhere but near 

 rapid water. Usually a rock in mid- 

 stream is selected and the nest placed 

 so that it is directly above the water, 

 the opening downstream. Both birds 

 work hard at building the nest — a ball 

 eight inches in diameter, made of a pe- 

 culiar kind of moss and fastened in a 

 crevice or notch in the rock with a 

 cement of mud. The ball is lined with 

 mud, and the inner nest constructed of 

 fine, waterproof grass that will not be- 

 come sodden. The spray from the rush- 

 ing water keeps the moss green, and 

 during the summer grass seeds are sure 

 to lodge on the ball and sprout there, so 

 that the nest soon resembles a small 

 clod of earth supporting a tuft of luxu- 

 riant grasses. The entrance to the nest 

 is usually arched over, or bottle-necked 

 with opening downward, to shed the 

 spray. The brainy little architect waits 

 until after the June freshets before 

 Ijuilding a nest — which might be inun- 

 dated earlier. He really seems to wait, 

 for he mates early, after having sung 

 his dainty little song since Christmas. 

 One of the strangest facts in nature is 

 that this tiny bird is a tvinter songster. 



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