6 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Jan. 81, 1884. 



sounded call after call along the corridors. The gusty clouds 

 turned their mighty bellows upou the doomed building. 

 Giant hands tore away section after section of the rocf. 

 From the lofty walls heaven's archery trained its enginery 

 and filled the air with arrows of snow. Mocking voices cat- 

 called among the shadows, while the Vulcan of Winter 

 forged chains to Rhackle the universe. 



The ambassador of the "Moss-backs" felt strange and out of 

 place among such tumultuous scenes. A great longing 

 sprung up in his heart to be at home, but he compromised by 

 crawling into a hole. 



At 6 o'clock a train as of giant powder knocked the 

 palace into a cocked hat. A few minutes later the trium- 

 phal car of the Storm-king, drawn by a lumbering old 

 blast, rolled noisily away toward the north; and then 

 silence reigned. 



When one week later the traveler stood in the council 

 chamber of his people and related his experience, an aged 

 chief arose and said: "Truth is mighty. Before it the fal- 

 lacies of ages crumble away. It pains me to know that I 

 was bo many years in darkness. 1 Tepent, and feel that if 

 a few more cannon balls could be thrown, and a few more 

 -arrows of sunlight illume the sun dial of life, we would 

 have a fuller knowledge, of our own weaknesses, and be better 

 able to guide our fellows away from the shoals that have 

 caught the wreckage of many a soul, that lied well but not 

 wisely." 



The hero was feasted on boiled dog. 



Here tradition ends. 



Some people aro slow to believe this story, but among the 

 "Moss-backs" it is never questioned. 



A fitting monument has been erected in memory of Smith. 

 Without him the world might have remained in darkness 

 upon the great subject Parson O'Gath. 



Baibd Ihon Works, Gore, Ohio, * 



Jfa/jap/ W*$t ar B* 



THE RAMBLE OF A NATURALIST. 



BY .TTJDGE JOHN G, HENDERSON, 



I 1ST my boyhood days, long before I ever beard of Audubon, 

 Wilson, Nuttali, or the Prince of Musignano, it was my 

 delight to go alone into the deep woods with my shotgun, 

 note-book and pencil, to study the habits and character of 

 birds. And now, as often as spring returns, bringing with 

 it the song of the robin, bluebird and the whip-poor-will, the 

 old desire for the woods and the birds comes over me again. 

 As often as the duties of my profession will allow, I gratify 

 that desire; and although these ornithological rambles are 

 not so frequent as they once were, yet even now the cry of 

 the catbird, or the song of the brown thrush causes the 

 blood to bound again through my veins, just as it did long 

 years ago, when a barefoot boy I first saw the blue eggs of the 

 "one in the nest hidden in the briar patch, or counted the 

 speckled eggs of the other as I peered into its curious nest 

 hidden under the end of a rail on the corner of the old worm 

 fence. Never shall I forget some of the impressions made 

 upon my mind during these juvenile rambles. F©r example, 

 I remember shooting the yellow-billed cuckoo (Coccyzu* 

 am-erka?ms.) To me it was then entirely a new bird, and I 

 now remember distinctly how curiously I examined it; 

 counting the feathers of the tail, noting the terminal spot 

 upon each, the long pointed wings, and long curved bill, 

 and the thought then came to my mind, "What an interest- 

 ing book it would make, if some one would write a descrip- 

 tion of all the birds, and tell all about their food, their nest- 

 ing and their habits." Poor, ignorant boy! What a treat 

 would it have been had some friend placed in my hand 

 Wilson's "American Ornithology," or Audubon's "Orni- 

 thological Biography." 



But I have forgotten the object I had in view — that of 

 taking you from the busy city, with its miles of sidewalk 

 and monotonous stone or brick buildings, with me to the 

 woods and the green fields. Billy is saddled and ready, 

 while Pete, the old pointer dog, and Birdie, the little cocker 

 spaniel, are both barking impatientlj , so let us be off. 



What is that bird with the long tail, the brownish back 

 and light yellow abdomen in the old elm at the end of the 

 lane? Listen to his harsh note, and see, there is his mate 

 with something in her mouth. She is making a nest near 

 here. * Let ns look for it, for they are hard to find. We need 

 not look among the terminal bunches of leaves for a hang 

 nest like that of the oriole, nor on the branches for a nest 

 like that of the robin, or wood thrush, for the great crested 

 flycatcher, builds its nest "in hollows in trees, stumps, or 



eggs, four, five or six in number, are desposited on a bed 

 composed of loose hay, feathers, hair of small quadrupeds, 

 or the exuvise of snakes. "Their ground color is a light 

 buff, rather than cream color, over wliich are waving lines, 

 marblings, markings, and dots of a brilliant purple, and 

 others of a more obscure shading." (Baird, Brewer & Ridg- 

 way's North American Birds, vol. II., p. 336.) "This fly- 

 catcher is tyrannical in a degree surpassing the kingbird it- 

 self," says Audubon, and he adds that they have frequent 

 encounteis among themselves in which they exhibit unre- 

 lenting fierceness and cruelty, sometimes even plucking a 

 conquered rival. But see tne female has gene into that hole 

 on the underside of that big limb, f uil sixty feet from the 

 ground, and perhaps some "other day we may come with 

 ropes and other contrivances to assist us in mounting to it, 

 where we may obtain for our collection a set of their beau- 

 tiful eggs; but now we will go on our journey. 



Ah ! there is a nest in the old thorn tree, about six feet 

 from the ground. The reins are thrown over a stake and 

 "Billy, stand there while we reconnoitre." That is the 

 slender apology which the turtle dove calls her nest, a few 

 coarse sticks laid together on the thorns in the foik, for a 

 foundation, and lined with grasses. The cavity is not as 

 deep as a saucer, and yet there is something there for that 

 little bird-mother to love, and of which she is proud ; for 

 see, my hand is within a foot of her and yet she only eyes 

 me curiously. Listen! we can almost hear her heart beat. 

 Look at her* beautiful eyes, and the lovely outline of form, 

 her soft, blended plumage; but she is off, and pretending to 

 be wounded, she goes fluttering through the bushes. That 

 is what was once, called instinct, but we have no time now 

 to discuss the question whether it is instinct or intelligence, 

 and, "Mother birdie, you cannot fool us now." Well do I 

 remember, when a barefoot boy, I set down my basket of 



now ; so, leaving our frightened bird to carry on her per- 

 formance, as the lawyers say, exparte, we will peep into her 

 nest. One little red, downy dove and another just ready to 

 break the shell ! ' 'Come back little birdie, we won't rob you 

 of your treasures." 



Listen t No such music as that ever fell on mortal ear, ex- 

 cept in the deep tangled woods, under the shade of the great 

 elms where sunlight seldom goes. That is the song of the 

 wood thrush (Turdns viusklinus); but, lest you think me 

 unduly enthusiastic over the song of a bird, let us recall Au- 

 dubon's description of these notes. "Seldom," he says, 

 "have I listened to the notes of this thrush, without feeling 

 all that tranquillity of mind to which the secluded situation in 

 which it delights, is so favorable. The thickest and darkest 

 woods always appear to please it best. The borders of 

 murmuring streamlets, overshadowed by the dense foliage of 

 the lofty trees growing on the gentle declivities, amid which 

 the sunbeams seldom penetrate7are its favorite resorts. There 

 it is, kind reader, that the musical powers of this hermit of 

 the woods must be heard to be fully appreciated and enjoyed. 

 The song of the wood thrush, although composed of but few 

 notes, is so powerful, distinct, clear and mellow, that it is 

 impossible for any person to hear it without being struck 

 by the effect which it produces upon the mind. I do not 

 know to what instrumental sounds I can compare these 

 notes, for I really know none so melodious and harmonical. 

 They gradually rise in strength and then fall in gentle ca- 

 dences, becoming so low as to be scarcely audible; like the 

 emotions of the lover, who at one moment exults in the hope 

 of possessing the object of his affections and the next pauses 

 in suspense, doubtful of the result of all his efforts to please. " 

 Such is the American Backwoodsman's glowing description 

 of the song of the bird whose notes are now falling upou 

 our ear. Doubtless he is singing to cheer the heart of his 

 beloved, who is patiently sitting upon her nest somewhere 

 near us. We know it is astride of a low limb, perhaps in 

 the dogwood just beyond the brook. No, it is not there. 

 Let us look in the tangled thicket away to the right. The 

 brush is thick and apparently impenetrable, but by stooping 

 we can get through, and when once in the middle we can 

 easily see a nest if there is one there. Yes, there is a nest in 

 the top of that low bush, supported partly by the bush and 

 partly by the blackberry briars, but it is not that of the wood 

 thrush, but of his cousin, the catbird (Mimus Caroline mis). 

 The scared mother has just left it and plunged through the 

 thicket. Listen, there is her complaining note. The eggs 

 are warm and fresh, and henceforth eggs and nest will 

 occupy a place in our cabinet. As we deposit the eggs in 

 our basket we think of the similarity of color in the eggs of 

 this species and those of the robin (Turdus migratoriux) , the 

 wood thrush and other memfeets of the same family, except 

 the brown thrush, and that this similarity extends even to 

 those of the bluebird (Sialia)>* 



Carefully depositing the eggs of our catbird in the basket 

 we are off again, wishing Mrs. Ca'bird better luck next 

 time. Round and round we tramp, with both eyes wide 

 open, but no nest of the wood thrush can we find. 



So we mount Billy again and ride another mile, then tie 

 and into the woods again. Birdie is giving tongue, as the 

 sportsmen say, beyoud the creek, but he is only after a gray 

 rabbit (Lepus sylmtkus). See! there it goes skulking 

 through the grass and weeds, crouched down almost to the 

 ground. Old Pete looks at it as it passes, but too well 

 trained to "chase fur" he only looks at us and wags his tail. 

 But a little gray bird arrests our attention as he sits upon 

 the end of lhat old snag jutting out over the creek. That is 

 the wood pew Qe(Contapus virens), busy getting his break- 

 fast. See him turn his head from side to side as he watches 

 for insects. Look at him through this field glass. See the 

 expression of his eye, his erected crest. See him launch 

 into the air, seize his prey, always returning to the same 

 spot. He is small and not brilliantly colored, but he is a 

 curious bird. His nest may be within twenty feet of us, on 

 the jutting limb of that old oak, and his beloved little part- 

 ner eyeing us curiously; but we will have a good time find- 

 ing it. Of the nest of this bird, Audubon says: "Were it 

 not that the bird generally discloses its situation, it would 

 be difficult to discover it, "for it is shallow, well saddled to 

 the branch, and connected with it by an extension of the 

 lichens forming its outer coat in such a manner as to induce 

 a person seeing it to suppose it merely a swelling of the 

 branch." [Ornith. Biog., Vol. II., p. 95]. 



So giving up the search without an effort, let us ramble 

 on. Yonder is the cardinal grosbeak. Somewhere near us 

 is his nest, for his song, that we heard but a moment ago, is 

 hushed, and he now only utters a short alarm note at inter- 

 vals as he watches us. Now, while crawling on our hands 

 and knees in the brush on the hillside near the creek, directly 

 overhead we spy a nest. It is about eight feet from the 

 ground astride of a small elm that is bent over at the top. 

 See the bird is on. We can only see her head, the underside 

 of her bill and throat; but we know by the specks on the 

 latter that she is the wood thrush; but she is off and away 

 through the thick brush, before we have time to get a good 

 look at her. The nest is too high for us to look into, the tree 

 too slender to climb, so we carefully remove it, and what do 

 we find? Three eggs of the wood thrush and one of the cow- 

 bird. This is the fourth time this spring that we have found 

 nests containing the egg of the cowbird, viz. : one in the 

 uest of the robin, one in the nest of the field sparrow (SpizeUa 

 pmilla), with two eggs of the rightful owner; one in the 

 nest of the wood thrush, with three eggs of the owner, and 

 three in the nest of the cardinal grosbeak (?) with three eggs 

 of the latter, and the present instance. 



The three cowbird eggs were brought to me by a little 

 boy, who said he found the six eggs in one nest. The nest 

 he had destroyed; so I had no'means of identifying the 

 rightful owner, except by the eggs, which I believe to be 

 those of the cardinal grosbeak. Had we known that the 

 nest now before us contained an egg of the vagabond cow- 

 bird, we would not have taken it down, but allowed the 

 wood thrush to incubate it, and by observation have deter- 

 mined whether birds as large as this thrush rear the young 

 cowbird. 



These eggs were all fresh, but the mother bird was care- 

 fully sitting on them, just as if the whole four were her own. 

 Mr. Ord mentions two instances in which the wood thrush 

 hatched the egg of the cowbird, and Mr. J. A. Allen saw in 

 Western Iowa a female brewn thrush (Ha r porky nchvs rufvs) 

 feeding a nearly full grown cowbird. Dr. Brewer says this 



seed corn and gave chase to what I supposed was o wounded c ^tryhe might conceive it proi 

 meadow lark (Sturnetta magna); but such tricks won't win | among the thrushes."— Ornith. Bi 



* Audubon mentions many points of resemblance between the 

 robin and bluebird, to which" might be added the sported breast of 

 the young of the former, and similarity In the color of the eggs. All 

 of these ' facts corroborate his judgment when he says that if he 

 "were now engaged in forming an arrangement of the birds of our 



mer to assis 

 ;iog., Vol. f 



i the bluebird a place 



is an interesting fact, and the on"y evidence we now have 

 that these birds are reared by birds' of superior size. (Baird, 

 Brewer & Ridgway's North Amer. Birds, Vol. II., p. 155). 

 Our haste in the removal of this nest prevented the oppor- 

 tunity for making valuable observations upon this point, 

 but it is too late now, and as we sit down on the sloping bank 

 to number the nest and eggs, we fancied we could see the 

 little female cowbird, with palpitating heart, hurriedly de- 

 positing her egg in the stranger nest, and the consternation 

 of the thrushes when they found it. 



Careful observers have noted these occurrences and de- 

 scribed them in felicitous language. Audubon says: "When 

 the female is about to deposit her eggs she is observed to 

 leave her companions and perch upon a tree or fence, as- 

 suming an appearance of uneasiness. Her object is to ob- 

 serve other birds while engaged in constructing their nests. 

 Should she not from this position discover a nest, she moves 

 off and flies from tree to tree, until at length, having found 

 a suitable repository for her eggj she waits her opportunity. 

 drops it, flies off, and returns in exultation to hat com- 

 panions." (Ornith. Biog., Vol. I., pp. 495-496). 



Dr. Elliott Coues describes the same performance in the 

 following quaint and felicitous language: "It is interest 

 to observe the female cowbird ready to lay. She becomes 

 disquieted; she betrays unwonted excitement, and ceases 

 her busy search for food with her companions. At length 

 she separates from the flock, and sallies forth to reconnoitre, 

 anxiously indeed, for her case is urgent, and she has no 

 home. How obtrusive is the sad analogy! She flies to some 

 thicket or hedgerow, or other common resort of birds, where 

 something teaches her— perhaps experience— nests will be 

 found. Stealthily and in perfect silence she flits along, peer- 

 ing furtively, alternately elated or dejected, into the depths 

 of the foliage. She espies a nest, but the owner's head peeps 

 over the brim; and she must pass on. Now, however, comes 

 her chance; there is the very nest she wishes, and no one at 

 home. She disappears for a few minutes, and it is almost 

 another bird that comes out of the bush. Her business 

 done, and trouble over, she chuckles her self-grat illations, 

 rustles her plumage to adjust it trimly, and flies back to her 

 associates. They know what has happened, but are discreet 

 enough to say nothing — charity is often no Jess wise than 

 kind," (Birds of the Northwest, p. 185.) 



Audubon says: "When the female returns and finds in 

 her nest an egg which she immediately perceives to be dif- 

 ferent from her own, she leaves the nest and perches on a 

 branch near it, returns and retires several times in succes- 

 sion, flies off, calling loudly for her mate, who soon makes 

 his appearance, manifesting great anxiety at the distress of 

 his spouse. They visit the nest together, letire from it, and 

 continue chattering for a considerable time. Nevertheless, 

 the obnoxious egg retains its position, the bird continues to 

 deposit its eggs, and incubation takes place as usual." 

 (Ornith. Biog., Vol. I., p. 497). 



But leaving our wood thrush to console herself in L 

 flictiou over the loss of her eggs and nest, with the fact that 

 the hated cowbird egg is gone too, let us pass on. Now hold 

 on to my hand while we cross the slender log over the 

 creek, and we will follow up the ravine in the wheatfield. 

 it is skirted with bushes — just the place for birds' nests. Out 

 from under that clump of bushes Pete scares a yellow-billed 

 cuckoo (Coccyzus amcricanus), but no nest there. Further 

 on in a little "brush, on the margin of the ravine, wc find the 

 nest of a little sparrow, probably the black-throated bunting 

 (Euspiza aniericanoJ), but as it contains but a single egg we 

 leave it. Its unusual position — about five feet from the 

 ground — causes us to hesitate as to the species. There, in 

 that clump of roses, is a nest of the brown thrush (Uarpor- 

 hynehus rvfus), with a single half-grown young one in it, and 

 beyond, in the forks of a small elm, about eight feet from 

 the ground, we find the nest of the bluejay (Gyanvwrw crista- 

 tus), containing three eggs, all of which are numbered to cor- 

 respond with the entries in our "Field Book," and we seek 

 for other "spoils;" but we know by experience that it is use- 

 less to expect to find other nests very" near that of the blue- 

 jay, because birds are careful to shun such a robber. 



Trudging on up the ravine, Pete comes to a point on a 

 turtle dove, she flushes, feigns to be wounded, and her nest 

 is found about three feet from the ground in the forks of a 

 little elm, on the bank of the ravine. It contains two fresh 

 eggs, and, as the nest is an unusually good one for the dove, 

 we number it among the ornithological specimens of our, 

 cabinet, and, while making the entries, we see a female 

 black-throated bunting (Euspiza amerieava) slip off her 

 nest and steal away amid the briers. The nest, within six 

 feet of that of the dove, is about a foot from the ground, 

 neatly made, lined with slender grasses, and supported by 

 being built against a blackberry bush, and held in place by 

 weeds or grasses. All the nests of this species which we 

 have ever found have been up off the ground, although the 

 books say that the usual nesting place is on the ground. It 

 contains* three pale blue eggs, about the size and shape of 

 those of the bluebird (S. sialis), and, as these nests are hard 

 to find, of course we take it. Down the fence, within fifty 

 yards, in a little thorn, about fifteen inches from the ground, 

 we find a beautiful nest of the field sparrow (Spizella pvsiUa), 

 containing four eggs, about the size and shape of those of 

 the chipping sparrow (SpizeUa socialis), but differing in color. 

 These are white, with brown blotches about the larger end, 

 while those of the chippy are pale green with similar dots. 

 As we desire to take the bird, we leave the nest and eggs for 

 another day. 



Returning down the other side of the ravine we find the 

 nest and four eggs of the catbird (Mimus caroh'nensis) in a 

 thick clump of roses. 



Crossing the wheatfield westward along an old, blown- 

 down fence, we find the indigo bird (Cyanospiza eyanea). the 

 black-throated bunting and the Maryland yellow throat 

 (OeotMypis trichas), all of which, by their actions, probably 

 have nests in the vicinity, but none' of which are we able to 

 find. Allow me to say to you that never yet have I had the 

 good fortune to find the nest of the latter bird. The book* 

 all tell us where to look for them, in old brier patches, on 

 the ground, and, judging from the number of birds of thh 

 species seen in a day's tramp, they must, be plentv in mj 

 locality, yet, aa above stated, 1 have never found a nest 

 By the way. all three, of these birds are the victims of th« 

 cow bird's "laziness. Audubon told Brewer a curious storj 

 of how the cowbird got its egg into the nest of the golden 

 crowned thrush. This nest, built on the gPfUnd and so con 

 skucted as seemingly to preclude the possibility of the cov 

 birds depositing its eggs in it, but Dr. Brewer says that Au 

 dubon told him that ft was the custom of the cowbird to rob 

 her egg along on the ground and thrust it into the nest wit] 

 her head. 



Leaving the upland, let as go now upon the river bottom 

 as the bald, grassy bluffs just, before us indicate that we ar 



