March 9, 1912 
FOREST AND STREAM 
307 
February Bird Notes. 
Delanson, N. Y., March 2—Editor Forest and 
Stream: Our Northern woods are bleak and 
cold in February, nevertheless I spent some 
pleasant days on a steep, wooded slope facing 
the south where I got out fuel to last a year. 
At the foot of the slope in the shadow of a cliff 
fifty feet high lay the snow-covered creek quite 
silent, except for a faint musical murmur where 
the water slipped over the falls. It was not a 
place where one who desired companionship or 
loved society would resort, yet I had company 
even there. Birds that in rough weather accept¬ 
ed our hospitality at the house—nuthatches, 
chickadees and downy woodpeckers—came daily 
inspecting the fresh chips and fragments of 
bark, spicing their woods fare with ants whose 
roof tree I had demolished, and on days when 
the uplands were swept by fierce winds that only 
the snow buntings dared face, goldfinches worked 
in the hemlocks and littered the snow beneath 
with shredded cones. Fellow laborers were they, 
similarly engaged; I with more foresight, per¬ 
haps, storing fuel for the next winter, they stor¬ 
ing for next night’s or to-morrow’s cold. 
One day a small owl resembling a large knot 
was hiding in a low hemlock nearby, but a jay 
discovered him, and instantly advised me of his 
presence. When I drew near his perch, he took 
wing silently, and the jay followed, creaking 
like a dry wheel from tree to tree. 
Another bird, more reserved than these, but 
one that I sometimes disturbed while on my way 
to work, was the ruffed grouse that burst out 
from cover among the creeping juniper, whip¬ 
ping the slender twigs and branches with tense 
wings. I often saw his track in the clearing 
further down the creek and might have thought 
that he was afoot solely for pleasure had I not 
discovered that he “budded’’ the low bushes as 
he walked the snow. Thanks to the foresight 
of a few neighbors, these hardy birds are not 
likely to become locally extinct, for on many 
acres of wild land here, shooting is forbidden 
and birds find food and shelter throughout the 
year unmolested by man. 
Besides these there were a few four-footed 
creatures dwelling near that rarely or never 
ventured abroad during my working hours, but 
whose travels and adventures were plainly print¬ 
ed in the snow. The gray squirrel visited a 
hickory in the pasture nearly every morning be¬ 
fore I passed, and the fox crossed and some¬ 
times followed my path. The gray rabbit nibbled 
nightly on the tender twigs of a maple that I 
had laid low, and I saw where a muskrat that 
had adventured up to the falls at the head of 
the gorge had repeatedly attempted to climb the 
slippery height and each time failed. This was 
my morning paper, every line of which I read on 
my way to work. 
Those early February days were cold, but as 
I came down from the woods late in the after¬ 
noon I saw a bird flying westward across the 
pasture that I at first mistook for a crow. I 
recognized it as a Cooper’s hawk by its periodic 
flapping and sailing, the first hawk I had seen 
since December, and the first bird of spring. 
While the hawk flew low, reconnoitering the 
witch hazel clumps and hardback patches, I 
heard the familiar note that I had had in mind 
a moment before, and looking up beheld two 
belated crows, high in air, yet near enough for 
me to hear their voices raised in derision or 
anger at first sight of their returning foe. 
A snow storm doubled the number of birds 
that came to the house for food and shelter, and 
on stormy mornings I, too, was glad to postpone 
my operations in the woods. Screenings from 
the thresher, bits of broken buckwheat and seeds 
of various wild grasses and weeds scattered on 
the snow kept a dozen or more tree sparrows 
constantly under observation. Besides these a 
trio of English sparrows came daily, a pair of 
purple finches were irregular visitors, and dur¬ 
ing the first three weeks of the month a solitary 
female redpoll, the first we had an opportunity 
to study at short range. The redpoll was a 
diminutive sparrow-colored bird, with evenly 
striped or slashed sides below the wings, and 
wore a little red cap pulled down to her eyes 
that when touched by the sun quite surpassed the 
downy woodpecker’s. Although abandoned by or 
lost from a flock of her own kind. I noticed that 
the tree sparrows had little sympathy for Irel¬ 
and hustled her about regardless of her forlorn 
condition. 
One new trait of the tree sparrows, or at least 
one that I had never before observed, was their 
fondness for fresh pork and nuts, which led to 
frequent clashes with the nuthatches and chick¬ 
adees. The latter birds surrendered every choice 
morsel without vigorous protest, but sometimes 
retaliated by carrying away bits of broken buck¬ 
wheat to even up the score. On the whole, the 
tree sparrows were not as well behaved at meat 
as the English sparrows that usually fed with 
them. There was a truce between the two, while 
the tree sparrows tilted among themselves if one 
encroached by an inch on another’s rights, but 
there was evidence of ameliorating influences at 
work among them, as when one bird fed an¬ 
other. These were our only songsters. How¬ 
ever cold’ or rough those February dawns, under 
the window came the flock pouring out fine little 
rills of song in which the ice tinkled. 
Among our chickadees was one that we recog¬ 
nized from day to day, a bob-tailed bird whose 
history was brief and pathetic. We saw him 
nearly every day from early January until Feb. 
10, the coldest day of the month, when we missed 
him from the flock and conjectured what might 
be the cause of his absence. The mystery was 
soon solved, however, for one of the boys found 
him under the shed dead, where he had sought 
shelter from the storm. 
But after the middle of the month there were 
mornings, not a few, ushered in by the insistent 
and prophetic crowing of cocks long before 
dawn, days when the woodhouse eaves dripped 
with the melting snow and chickadees bathed in 
the icy pools along the walk, when a host of 
hollow spears were suddenly thrust upward 
through the snow in every stubble field and the 
first shore larks peeped disconsolately from road¬ 
side walls still fortified by scalloped drifts. On 
such days some of the chickadees disappeared, 
but many remained, alternately bathing in the 
icy pools, as I have said, feeding before the 
windows, searching the woodpile over for the 
thousandth time or working on the crimson 
clusters of the staghorn sumach by the kitchen 
door. The tree sparrows and the lonely redpoll, 
forgetful of our hospitality, took all-day outings 
in weedy fields, and I returned to the woods. 
Will W. Christman. 
Early Birds. 
Baltimore, Md., Feb. 22-—Editor Forest and 
Stream: Within the last week I have read two 
letters that seem to indicate that the birds in 
New England had “gotten their dates mixed.’’ 
A post card from Miss M. T., Center Marsh¬ 
field, Mass., received on Feb. 22, reports a flock 
of bluebirds on the 20th, and two or three red¬ 
wing blackbirds on the i8th. 
A letter from Dr. H. E. M., Winchester, Mass., 
received on Feb. 14, says: “To-day, to my sur¬ 
prise, I have seen a flock of whistlers, several 
sheldrakes, three buffleheads and, I think, a 
flock of redhead ducks, etc., in the water where 
the East Boston ferry crosses. A few evening 
grosbeaks are about here for the first time on 
record. So far I have been the only lucky ob¬ 
server.’’ 
He (Dr. M.) goes on to say: “Yesterday I 
saw a fine specimen of the king rail, which was 
taken at South Duxbury, Mass., a few days ago, 
and was, I think, only the fourth bird of that 
kind recorded in Massachusetts. My friend 
Barker was at Green Harbor, Mass., t-^o weeks 
ago to cut ice and he told me that there were 
many robins there and many quail.” 
Here, in Maryland, our robins and bluebirds 
have not come north yet; of course, we have a 
few stragglers that have braved this unusually 
cold winter and stayed with us, but the flight 
has not yet begun. 
As to the king rail—well,-it is an undisputed 
saying here that ‘‘the first hard frost all the rail 
leave,” and it does not take a very hard frost to 
send them south, either. 
As to the bufflehead ducks, we consider them 
as one of the small, tender ducks, and like the 
teal and woodduck, they go south early; that is, 
before real cold weather, and rarely return until 
spring has opened. H. Lindley. 
Starlings with Crows. 
Holyoke, Mass., Feb. 29.— Editor Forest and 
Stream: I see you doubt my vision in my ac¬ 
count of crows and starlings flying together, but 
I am certain I was not mistaken, because one 
Sunday, when they were feeding in the field, I 
got over the fence and walked within a few 
yards of them. I certainly knew the crows, and 
the other birds were about the size of robins, black 
or brown, light colored tips on feathers, and 
gave a call like the blackbird. I know they were 
starlings, because I saw some in Central Park. 
I have not been to South Amherst this winter, 
so I do not know whether these birds keep to¬ 
gether or not. I never saw birds of two kinds 
on such intimate terms, but I noticed that when 
the chickadees come around farm houses, there 
most always are nuthatches with them. 
Ellis L. Dudley. 
