The Warbler in Stripes 



By H. E. TUTTLE, Simsbury. Conn. 



THE broken wing tactics employed by most birds in an endeavor to divert 

 attention from the nest or young are at best a perfunctory performance: 

 it is only occasionally that you discover a real artist. The usual offering 

 consists in fluttering along the ground for a few feet, after which the dissembler 

 flies quite easily into a tree, as if to assure his audience that the wing which 

 was so obviously crippled a moment ago is now healed. If the female plays 

 the tragic role, the male will frequently greet the miraculous recovery with a 

 song, and the two will go about their business without the slightest shame for 

 the inadequacy of their deception. But if the truly great tragedian is rare, his 

 technique is the more appreciated by those whose sense of the dramatic has 

 been outraged by so many mediocre melodramas. 



The realistic portrayal of a great emotion does not seem peculiar to a single 

 species, yet some species seem to emphasize different features of the part. 

 The Ovenbird and the Rose-breasted Grosbeak, to select two examples from 

 a large class, appear to have made a study of screaming, while the less vocal 

 Mourning Dove contents herself with a palpitation of the wings. The Ruffed 

 Grouse is an adept at covering the retreat of her young, and, if surprised at 

 close range, will frequently rush at the intruder with spreading tail and 

 threatening mien. 



But among the nests that I have found whose discovery has called forth 

 the clever dissimulation of many light-hearted deceivers, none has provoked 

 greater admiration on my part than the convincing artifice displayed by a 

 Black and White Creeping Warbler that darted out from the roots of a dead 

 chestnut sapling as I passed close by on a June afternoon. 



She struck the leaves with a slight thud and turned over on her side, while 

 the toes of one upstretched leg clutched at the air and her tail spread slowly 

 into a pointed fan. My first thought had been, "A nest, surely." My next, 

 "A badly wounded bird." Deceived for a moment then, I turned a step in her 

 direction. She lay quite still except for a quivering wing. I reached out toward 

 her with a small stick and touched her side; she screamed pitifully; I stretched 

 out my hand to pick her up, but with a last effort she righted herself, and by 

 kicking desperately with one leg, succeeded in pushing forward a few inches. 

 I reached again; she struggled on; but after a third vain effort I began to realize 

 that she was making a fool of me, and fearing that I might miss the spot from 

 which she had flown if I pursued her farther, I desisted and retraced my steps 

 to the chestnut sapling. But having failed to lure me from her nest, like a 

 true artist she did not admit the fraud, and still lay where I had left her, giving 

 no evidence of recovery. 



With some difficulty I found the nest, a well-concealed cup hidden under 

 some strips of bark which had fallen from the dead tree and lay piled up tepee 



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