Birds and all Nature, Vol. IV, No. 3, September 1898

BIRDS OF ALASKA

No sooner had the twilight settled over the island than new bird voices called from the hills about us. The birds of the day were at rest, and their place was filled with the night denizens of the island. They came from the dark recesses of the forests, first single stragglers, increased by midnight to a stream of eager birds, passing to and fro from the sea. Many, attracted by the glow of the burning logs, altered their course and circled about the fire a few times and then sped on. From their notes we identified the principal night prowlers as the Cassin's Auklet, Rhinoceros Auk, Murrelet, and varieties of Petrel. All through the night our slumbers were frequently disturbed by birds alighting on the sides of the tent, slipping down with great scratching into the grass below, where our excited Dog took a hand in the matter, daylight often finding our tent strewn with birds he had captured during the night. When he found time to sleep I do not know. He was after birds the entire twenty-four hours.

In climbing over the hills of the island we discovered the retreats of these night birds, the soil everywhere through the deep wood being fairly honeycombed with their nesting burrows. The larger tunnels of the Rhinoceros Auks were, as a rule, on the slopes of the hill, while the little burrows of the Cassin's Auklet were on top in the flat places. We opened many of their queer abodes that ran back with many turns to a distance of ten feet or more. One or both birds were invariably found at the end, covering their single egg, for this species, like many other sea birds, divide the duties of incubation, both sexes doing an equal share, relieving each other at night.

The Puffins nested in burrows also, but lower down – often just above the surf. One must be very careful, indeed, how he thrusts his hand into their dark dens, for should the old bird chance to be at home, its vise-like bill can inflict a very painful wound. The rookeries of the Murres and Cormorants were on the sides of steep cliffs overhanging the sea. Looking down from above, hundreds of eggs could be seen, gathered along the narrow shelves and chinks in the rocks, but accessible only by means of a rope from the top. —Outing.

THE RED-SHOULDERED HAWK

You have heard of me before. I am the Hawk whose cry Mr. Blue Jay imitated, as you will remember, in the story "The New Tenants," published in Birds.

Kee-oe, kee-oe, kee-oe, that is my cry, very loud and plaintive; they say I am a very noisy bird; perhaps that is the reason why Mr. Blue Jay imitates me more than he does other Hawks.

I am called Chicken Hawk, and Hen Hawk, also, though I don't deserve either of those names. There are members of our family, and oh, what a lot of us there are – as numerous as the Woodpeckers – who do drop down into the barnyards and right before the farmer's eyes carry off a Chicken. Red Squirrels, to my notion, are more appetizing than Chickens; so are Mice, Frogs, Centipedes, Snakes, and Worms. A bird once in a while I like for variety, and between you and me, if I am hungry, I pick up a chicken now and then, that has strayed outside the barnyard. But only occasionally, remember, so that I don't deserve the name of Chicken Hawk at all, do I?

Wooded swamps, groves inhabited by Squirrels, and patches of low timber are the places in which we make our homes. Sometimes we use an old crow's nest instead of building one; we retouch it a little and put in a soft lining of feathers which my mate plucks from her breast. When we build a new nest, it is made of husks, moss, and strips of bark, lined as the building progresses with my mate's feathers. Young lady Red-shouldered Hawks lay three and sometimes four eggs, but the old lady birds lay only two.

Somehow Mr. Blue Jay never sees a Hawk without giving the alarm, and on he rushes to attack us, backed up by other Jays who never fail to go to his assistance. They often assemble in great numbers and actually succeed in driving us out of the neighborhood. Not that we are afraid of them, oh no! We know them to be great cowards, as well as the crows, who harass us also, and only have to turn on our foes to put them to rout. Sometimes we do turn, and seizing a Blue Jay, sail off with him to the nearest covert; or in mid air strike a Crow who persistently follows us. But as a general thing we simply ignore our little assailants, and just fly off to avoid them.

THE Hawk family is an interesting one and many of them are beautiful. The Red-shouldered Hawk is one of the finest specimens of these birds, as well as one of the most useful. Of late years the farmer has come to know it as his friend rather than his enemy, as formerly. It inhabits the woodlands where it feeds chiefly upon Squirrels, Rabbits, Mice, Moles, and Lizards. It occasionally drops down on an unlucky Duck or Bob White, though it is not quick enough to catch the smaller birds. It is said to be destructive to domestic fowls raised in or near the timber, but does not appear to search for food far away from its natural haunts. As it is a very noisy bird, the birds which it might destroy are warned of its approach, and thus protect themselves.

During the early nesting season its loud, harsh kee-oe is heard from the perch and while in the air, often keeping up the cry for a long time without intermission. Col. Goss says that he collected at Neosho Falls, Kansas, for several successive years a set of the eggs of this species from a nest in the forks of a medium sized oak. In about nine days after each robbery the birds would commence laying again, and he allowed them to hatch and rear their young. One winter during his absence the tree was cut down, but this did not discourage the birds, or cause them to forsake the place, for on approach of spring he found them building a nest not over ten rods from the old one, but this time in a large sycamore beyond reach. This seemed to him to indicate that they become greatly attached to the grounds selected for a home, which they vigilantly guard, not permitting a bird of prey to come within their limits.

This species is one of the commonest in the United States, being especially abundant in the winter, from which it receives the name of Winter Falcon. The name of Chicken Hawk is often applied to it, though it does not deserve the name, its diet being of a more humble kind.

The eggs are usually deposited in April or May in numbers of three or four – sometimes only two. The ground color is bluish, yellowish-white or brownish, spotted, blotched and dotted irregularly with many shades of reddish brown. Some of them are strikingly beautiful. According to Davie, to describe all the shades of reds and browns which comprise the variation would be an almost endless task, and a large series like this must be seen in order to appreciate how much the eggs of this species vary.

The flight of the Red-shouldered Hawk is slow, but steady and strong with a regular beat of the wings. They take delight in sailing in the air, where they float lightly and with scarcely a notable motion of the wings, often circling to a great height. During the insect season, while thus sailing, they often fill their craws with grass-hoppers, that, during the after part of the day, also enjoy an air sail.

THE DOVES OF VENICE

VENICE, the pride of Italy of old, aside from its other numerous curiosities and antiquities, has one which is a novelty indeed. Its Doves on the San Marco Place are a source of wonder and amusement to every lover of animal life. Their most striking peculiarity is that they fear no mortal man, be he stranger or not. They come in countless numbers, and, when not perched on the far-famed bell tower, are found on the flags of San Marco Square. They are often misnamed Pigeons, but as a matter of fact they are Doves of the highest order. They differ, however, from our wild Doves in that they are fully three times as large, and twice as large as our best domestic Pigeon. Their plumage is of a soft mouse color relieved by pure white, and occasionally one of pure white is found, but these are rare. Hold out to them a handful of crumbs and without fear they will come, perch on your hand or shoulder and eat with thankful coos. To strangers this is indeed a pleasing sight, and demonstrates the lack of fear of animals when they are treated humanely, for none would dare to injure the doves of San Marco. He would probably forfeit his life were he to injure one intentionally. And what beggars these Doves of San Marco are! They will crowd around, and push and coo with their soft soothing voices, until you can withstand them no longer, and invest a few centimes in bread for their benefit. Their bread, by the way, is sold by an Italian, who must certainly be in collusion with the Doves, for whenever a stranger makes his appearance, both Doves and bread vender are at hand to beg.

The most remarkable fact in connection with these Doves is that they will collect in no other place in large numbers than San Marco Square, and in particular at the vestibule of San Marco Church. True, they are found perched on buildings throughout the entire city, and occasionally we will find a few in various streets picking refuse, but they never appear in great numbers outside of San Marco Square. The ancient bell tower, which is situated on the west side of the place, is a favorite roosting place for them, and on this perch they patiently wait for a foreigner, and proceed to bleed him after approved Italian fashion.

There are several legends connected with the Doves of Venice, each of which attempts to explain the peculiar veneration of the Venetian and the extreme liberty allowed these harbingers of peace. The one which struck me as being the most appropriate is as follows:

Centuries ago Venice was a free city, having her own government, navy, and army, and in a manner was considered quite a power on land and sea. The city was ruled by a Senate consisting of ten men, who were called Doges, who had absolute power, which they used very often in a despotic and cruel manner, especially where political prisoners were concerned. On account of the riches the city contained, and also its values as a port, Venice was coveted by Italy and neighboring nations, and, as a consequence, was often called upon to defend itself with rather indifferent success. In fact, Venice was conquered so often, first by one and then another, that Venetians were seldom certain of how they stood. They knew not whether they were slave or victor. It was during one of these sieges that the incident of the Doves occurred. The city had been besieged for a long time by Italians, and matters were coming to such a pass that a surrender was absolutely necessary on account of lack of food. In fact, the Doges had issued a decree that on the morrow the city should surrender unconditionally.

All was gloom and sorrow, and the populace stood around in groups on the San Marco discussing the situation and bewailing their fate, when lo! in the eastern sky there appeared a dense cloud rushing upon the city with the speed of the wind. At first consternation reigned supreme, and men asked each other: "What new calamity is this?" As the cloud swiftly approached it was seen to be a vast number of Doves, which, after hovering over the San Marco Place for a moment, gracefully settled down upon the flagstones and approached the men without fear. Then there arose a queer cry, "The Doves! The Doves of San Marco!" It appears that some years before this a sage had predicted stormy times for Venice, with much suffering and strife, but, when all seemed lost, there would appear a multitude of Doves, who would bring Venice peace and happiness. And so it came to pass that the next day, instead of attacking, the besiegers left, and Venice was free again. The prophet also stated that, so long as the Doves remained at Venice prosperity would reign supreme, but that there would come a day when the Doves would leave just as they had come, and Venice would pass into oblivion. That is why Venetians take such good care of their Doves.

You will not find this legend in any history, but I give it just as it was told me by a guide, who seemed well versed in hair-raising legends. Possibly they were manufactured to order by this energetic gentleman, but they sounded well nevertheless. Even to this day the old men of Venice fear that some morning they will awake and find their Doves gone.

There in the shadow of the famous bell-tower, with the stately San Marco church on one side and the palace of the cruel and murderous Doges on the other, we daily find our pretty Doves coaxing for bread. Often you will find them peering down into the dark passage-way in the palace, which leads to the dungeons underneath the Grand Canal. What a boon a sight of these messengers of peace would have been to the doomed inmates of these murder-reeking caves. But happily they are now deserted, and are used only as a source of revenue, which is paid by the inquisitive tourist.

Venice still remains as of old. She never changes, and the Doves of San Marco will still remain. May we hope, with the sages of Venice, that they may remain forever. —Lebert, in Cincinnati Commercial Gazette.

BUTTERFLIES

IT may appear strange, if not altogether inappropriate to the season, that "the fair fragile things which are the resurrection of the ugly, creeping caterpillars" should be almost as numerous in October as in the balmy month of July. Yet it is true, and early October, in some parts of the country, is said to be perhaps the best time of the year for the investigating student and observer of Butterflies. While not quite so numerous, perhaps, many of the species are in more perfect condition, and the variety is still intact. Many of them come and remain until frost, and the largest Butterfly we have, the Archippus, does not appear until the middle of July, but after that is constantly with us, floating and circling on the wing, until October. How these delicate creatures can endure even the chill of autumn days is one of the mysteries.

Very curious and interesting are the Skippers, says Current Literature. They are very small insects, but their bodies are robust, and they fly with great rapidity, not moving in graceful, wavy lines as the true Butterflies do, but skipping about with sudden, jerky motions. Their flight is very short, and almost always near the ground. They can never be mistaken, as their peculiar motion renders their identification easy. They are seen at their best in August and September. All June and July Butterflies are August and September Butterflies, not so numerous in some instances, perhaps, but still plentiful, and vying with the rich hues of the changing autumnal foliage.

The "little wood brownies," or Quakers, are exceedingly interesting. Their colors are not brilliant, but plain, and they seek the quiet and retirement of the woods, where they flit about in graceful circles over the shady beds of ferns and woodland grasses.

Many varieties of the Vanessa are often seen flying about in May, but they are far more numerous and perfect in July, August, and September. A beautiful Azure-blue Butterfly, when it is fluttering over flowers in the sunshine, looks like a tiny speck of bright blue satin. Several other small Butterflies which appear at the same time are readily distinguished by the peculiar manner in which their hind wings are tailed. Their color is a dull brown of various shades, marked in some of the varieties with specks of white or blue.

"Their presence in the gardens and meadows," says a recent writer, "and in the fields and along the river-banks, adds another element of gladness which we are quick to recognize, and even the plodding wayfarer who has not the honor of a single intimate acquaintance among them might, perhaps, be the first to miss their circlings about his path. As roses belong to June, and chrysanthemums to November, so Butterflies seem to be a joyous part of July. It is their gala-day, and they are everywhere, darting and circling and sailing, dropping to investigate flowers and overripe fruit, and rising on buoyant wings high into the upper air, bright, joyous, airy, ephemeral. But July can only claim the larger part of their allegiance, for they are wanderers into all the other months, and even occasionally brave the winter with torn and faded wings."

THE FOX

"A sly dog."

Somehow people always say that when they see a Fox. I'd rather they would call me that than stupid, however. Do I look stupid in my picture?

"Look pleasant," said the man when taking my photograph for Birds, and I flatter myself I did – and intelligent, too. Look at my brainy head, my delicate ears – broad below to catch every sound, and tapering so sharply to a point that they can shape themselves to every wave of sound. Note the crafty calculation and foresight of my low, flat brow, the resolute purpose of my pointed nose; my eye deep set – like a robber's – my thin cynical lips, and mouth open from ear to ear. You couldn't find a better looking Fox if you searched the world over.

I can leap, crawl, run, and swim, and walk so noiselessly that even the dead leaves won't rustle under my feet. It takes a deal of cunning for a Fox to get along in this world, I can tell you. I'd go hungry if I didn't plan and observe the habits of other creatures. For instance: I love Fish. When I want one for my supper off I trot to the nearest stream, and standing very quiet, watch till I spy a nice, plump trout in the clear water. A leap, a snap, and it is all over with Mr. Trout.

Another time I feel as though I'd like a crawfish. I see one snoozing by his hole near the water's edge. I drop my fine, bushy tail into the water and tickle him on the ear. That makes him furious – nobody likes to be wakened from a nap that way – and out he darts at the tail; snap go my jaws, and Mr. Crawfish is crushed in them, shell and all.

Between you and me, I consider that a very clever trick, too. Don't you?

Summer is my favorite season of the year. How I love the green fields, the ripening grain, the delicious fruits, for then the Rabbits prick up their long ears, and thinking themselves out of danger, run along the hillside; then the quails skulk in the wheat stubble, and the birds hop and fly about the whole day long. I am very fond of Rabbits, Quails, and other Birds. They make a very satisfactory meal. For dessert I have only to sneak into an orchard and eat my fill of apples, pears, and grapes. You perceive I have very good reason for liking the summer. It's the merriest time of the year for me, and my cubs. They grow fat and saucy, too.

THE GRAY FOX

THE only Foxes that are hunted (the others only being taken by means of traps or poison) are the Red and Gray species. The Gray Fox is a more southern species than the Red and is rarely found north of the state of Maine. Indeed it is said to be not common anywhere in New England. In the southern states, however, it wholly replaces the Red Fox, and, according to Hallock, one of the best authorities on game animals in this country, causes quite as much annoyance to the farmer as does that proverbial and predatory animal, the terror of the hen-roost and the smaller rodents. The Gray Fox is somewhat smaller than the Red and differs from him in being wholly dark gray "mixed hoary and black." He also differs from his northern cousin in being able to climb trees. Although not much of a runner, when hard pressed by the dog he will often ascend the trunk of a leaning tree, or will even climb an erect one, grasping the trunk in his arms as would a Bear. Nevertheless the Fox is not at home among the branches, and looks and no doubt feels very much out of place while in this predicament. The ability to climb, however, often saves him from the hounds, who are thus thrown off the scent and Reynard is left to trot home at his leisure.

Foxes live in holes of their own making, generally in the loamy soil of a side hill, says an old Fox hunter, and the she-Fox bears four or five cubs at a litter. When a fox-hole is discovered by the Farmers they assemble and proceed to dig out the inmates who have lately, very likely, been making havoc among the hen-roosts. An amusing incident, he relates, which came under his observation a few years ago will bear relating. A farmer discovered the lair of an old dog Fox by means of his hound, who trailed the animal to his hole. This Fox had been making large and nightly inroads into the poultry ranks of the neighborhood, and had acquired great and unenviable notoriety on that account. The farmer and two companions, armed with spades and hoes, and accompanied by the faithful hound, started to dig out the Fox. The hole was situated on the sandy slope of a hill, and after a laborious and continued digging of four hours, Reynard was unearthed and he and Rep, the dog, were soon engaged in deadly strife. The excitement had waxed hot, and dog, men, and Fox were all struggling in a promiscuous melee. Soon a burly farmer watching his chance strikes wildly with his hoe-handle for Reynard's head, which is scarcely distinguishable in the maze of legs and bodies. The blow descends, but alas! a sudden movement of the hairy mass brings the fierce stroke upon the faithful dog, who with a wild howl relaxes his grasp and rolls with bruised and bleeding head, faint and powerless on the hillside. Reynard takes advantage of the turn affairs have assumed, and before the gun, which had been laid aside on the grass some hours before, can be reached he disappears over the crest of the hill.

Hallock says that an old she-Fox with young, to supply them with food, will soon deplete the hen-roost and destroy both old and great numbers of very young chickens. They generally travel by night, follow regular runs, and are exceedingly shy of any invention for their capture, and the use of traps is almost futile. If caught in a trap, they will gnaw off the captured foot and escape, in which respect they fully support their ancient reputation for cunning.

MISCELLANY

Rural Bird Life in India. – "Nothing gives more delight," writes Mr. Caine, "in traveling through rural India than the bird-life that abounds everywhere; absolutely unmolested, they are as tame as a poultry yard, making the country one vast aviary. Yellow-beaked Minas, Ring-doves, Jays, Hoopoes, and Parrots take dust baths with the merry Palm-squirrel in the roadway, hardly troubling themselves to hop out of the way of the heavy bull-carts; every wayside pond and lake is alive with Ducks, Wild Geese, Flamingoes, Pelicans, and waders of every size and sort, from dainty red-legged beauties the size of Pigeons up to the great unwieldy Cranes and Adjutants five feet high. We pass a dead Sheep with two loathsome vultures picking over the carcass, and presently a brood of fluffy young Partridges with father and mother in charge look at us fearlessly within ten feet of our whirling carriage. Every village has its flock of sacred Peacocks pacing gravely through the surrounding gardens and fields, and Woodpeckers and Kingfishers flash about like jewels in the blazing sunlight."

Warning Colors. – Very complete experiments in support of the theory of warning colors, first suggested by Bates and also by Wallace, have been made in India by Mr. Finn, says The Independent. He concludes that there is a general appetite for Butterflies among insectivorous birds, though they are rarely seen when wild to attack them; also that many, probably most birds, dislike, if not intensely, at any rate in comparison with other Butterflies, those of the Danais genus and three other kinds, including a species of Papilio, which is the most distasteful. The mimics of these Butterflies are relatively palatable. He found that each bird has to separately acquire its experience with bad-tasting Butterflies, but well remembers what it learns. He also experimented with Lizards, and noticed that, unlike the birds, they ate the nauseous as well as other Butterflies.

Increase in Zoological Preserves in the United States – The establishment of the National Zoological Park, Washington, has led to the formation of many other zoological preserves in the United States. In the western part of New Hampshire is an area of 26,000 acres, established by the late Austin Corbin, and containing 74 Bison, 200 Moose, 1,500 Elk, 1,700 Deer of different species, and 150 Wild Boar, all of which are rapidly multiplying. In the Adirondacks, a preserve of 9,000 acres has been stocked with Elk, Virginia Deer, Muledeer, Rabbits, and Pheasants. The same animals are preserved by W. C. Whitney on an estate of 1,000 acres in the Berkshire Hills, near Lenox, Mass., where also he keeps Bison and Antelope. Other preserves are Nehasane Park, in the Adirondacks, 8,000 acres; Tranquillity Park, near Allamuchy, N. J., 4,000 acres; the Alling preserve, near Tacoma, Washington, 5,000 acres; North Lodge, near St. Paul, Minn., 400 acres; and Furlough Lodge, in the Catskills, N. Y., 600 acres.