There is one of this tribe, and the largest, the tawny-shouldered pogardus of Australia and New Guinea, which takes the young birds in its mouth, but with a very different purpose from that of the whip-poor-will. Generally, these birds live upon insects, which they catch readily with their enormous mouths; but during the mating season the great, fluffy fellows become veritable cannibals, and attack the nests of other birds, taking out the young, and devouring them, perhaps under the impression that they have discovered a new kind of insect.
The demure duck, although a conscientious mother, and careful of her brood, has never been considered as especially solicitous for her offspring; but there is one of the family that performs a remarkable feat—remarkable, at least, for a duck. This is the summer duck, Aix sponsa, one of the most beautiful of its kind. The plumage of these birds is exceedingly rich and gaudy, marked with streaks of white and black, the entire coat, in different lights, displaying various tints of bronze, blue, and green, while its head, the bill being red, is surmounted by a crest of glossy bronze-green feathers with violet tips, that so among the green leaves and branches it forms a striking and beautiful object.
"Summer Ducks."
<!-- image -->Unlike most of its tribe, the wood duck, as it is also called, builds its nest, often many feet from the ground, in hollow trees near streams. Here the oval eggs are laid, and covered with down taken from the mother's breast. After a while the young appear. For a while they are fed by the parents; and then comes the momentous question, asked, perhaps, by the little ducklings themselves: "How shall we get down?" Sometimes they are a foot or more below the window of their house, which is twenty feet from the ground, and being very restless little fellows (as are all ducklings), there is a constant jumping and scrambling to obtain a glimpse of the outer world. The water is so near that they can hear the old folks diving and splashing about—a provoking situation, surely; but the serious question of moving has been considered by the old birds, for on the very day that the ducklings are large enough to be trusted, they are released in a very remarkable manner. The male duck takes his place as sentinel on some neighboring branch, uttering a low "peet-peet," while the mother flies to the nest, stretches in her neck, and as one of the ducklings jumps toward her, she seizes it gently with her bill, either by its soft, fuzzy neck or by one of its wings, and flies off, notwithstanding its objection to this strange treatment. She deposits it safely on the ground, at the foot of the tree. Up she goes, without pausing, and another bird is fished out of the nest in the same way, and then another, until in a very few moments the entire brood are running about on the ground, wagging their downy tails, and poking their little bills into every attractive spot. It is a proud moment for the parents. The male descends from his watchtower, and the pair waddle away to the pond, followed by the entire family of ducklings, and all are soon enjoying the delights of free, rollicking life on the water. The nest is from this time deserted until the ensuing year, the young brood being led at night to some deep thicket in the woods.
The ruffed grouse often starts up at our feet and dashes away with a loud, whirring noise which is extremely startling to the novice. The nest is formed upon the ground, of grass and small sticks, at the foot of a bush under cover, skillfully made to resemble its surroundings.
"Ruffed Grouse."
<!-- image -->Sometimes a grouse loses all her brood but one; and on one such occasion the mother's actions were much like those related of the chuck-will's-widow. At the appearance of the gunner, she threw herself at his feet, as usual, and for a moment exercised all her arts and wiles; but the little one, not daring to leave her, rendered them useless. Seeing this, she hesitated a moment; then, seizing the chick by its downy feathers with her bill, and rising, she flew away with it. She disappeared in a thicket, leaving the gunner wondering at her ingenuity. The hunter who noted this was Wilson, the famous American ornithologist, and he says: "It would have been impossible for me to kill this affectionate mother, who had exhibited such an example of presence of mind, reason, and sound judgment as must have convinced the most bigoted advocates of mere instinct."
In the far northern countries, innumerable birds find homes on high cliffs, utterly inaccessible from the sea. So numerous are they that, as their white or black feathers are turned seaward, they change the very appearance of the cliffs to light or dark. On these crags, at a dizzy height above the water, breed the guillemots, shapely birds with black back and head, and white breast. Standing on the rocks, they appear like pygmy men decked out in white waistcoats. Their eggs are often placed on the rocks, there being little semblance of a nest, and when the young bird appears it is confronted with a leap far more to be dreaded than that already described as being before the young ducks; but in this case also the old bird sometimes comes to the rescue, and bears it safely down to the welcome water. This, however, is not done with the bill, the young guillemots being probably too heavy for such transportation; so the mother crouches down upon the rock, and, by threatening or coaxing, persuades the young bird to mount upon her back, between her wings, and boldly launches off, dropping gently down, perhaps several hundred feet, upon the water.
In the year 1867 six pairs of English skylarks were brought to this country and released on the meadows in Central Park. Hardly an English poet but has praised the song of the skylark. It is a glorious melody, and it would be difficult to find a bird better known or more widely appreciated; yet but few are aware of the intelligence it sometimes displays when rearing its young.
The nest is generally placed in the high grass of meadows; and a naturalist, in wandering through a field one spring, came by chance upon an entire family. Anxious to observe their movements, he withdrew a few paces, and there witnessed a curious proceeding. The old birds seemed greatly agitated, and were making a loud noise and darting about as if undecided what to do. Finally, the mother popped into the nest, seized one of the birds, and, lifting it upon her back, rose and flew away. Her mate almost immediately attempted the same feat; but, whether because he was unused to the operation or not, the little bird would slip off. He finally succeeded, with much difficulty, in balancing his load, and flew after his mate. In a few moments both returned, and they repeated their former action until they had removed every bird from the discovered nest.
The same observer on another occasion saw a skylark, when startled from its nest, seize an egg in its claws and dart away. Possibly it had had some experience with nest robbers, and was determined to foil them this time, at least. An examination of the lark's foot, with its enormously long toe and fourth nail, will make it clear how this feat was easily performed.
Not long ago, a professor in one of the Western colleges observed an interesting exhibition of motherly affection in the woodcock. He was out walking, when the bird started up almost at his feet, and flew away over the bush. Aiming his gun, he was about to fire, when he noticed that she held something between her claws. Curious to see what it was, the observer followed in headlong pursuit through the bushes. As her flight was somewhat labored, he soon came near enough to distinguish a downy little woodcock—a mere bunch of fuzz with a long beak and beadlike eyes—resting between the mother's claws; but then, with her precious load, the cunning mother suddenly darted into cover and disappeared.
Several other observers have witnessed similar occurrences, in this country and in England. Their testimony shows that these birds undoubtedly have much more intelligence than is usually accorded to them.
The remarkable devices of various bird mothers for protecting their homes and young are innumerable. Some of the cuckoos deposit their eggs in the nests of other birds, among the eggs already there, thus shirking maternal cares. Their offspring, thus abandoned, are well lodged, as no sooner are the young cuckoos hatched than the little interlopers throw out the other eggs, or even the young birds, and thus obtain the food rightfully belonging to the dispossessed brood.
"A Flycatcher's Nest."
<!-- image -->The great-crested flycatcher, and several others, are said by writers to adopt an exceedingly novel method to frighten away other birds and lizards that would prey upon their eggs. They wind into their nests one or more of the old skins which have been shed by snakes, so that these appear to be live snakes coiled about the nests. I believe few nests of the great-crested flycatcher have ever been found without one of these sham snakes as a presumable protection against marauders.
JACK AND JILL REYNARD.
JACK and Jill Reynard, before I became acquainted with them, lived in a deep, dark valley in the Sierra Madre Mountains—a canyon that was a green river in its beauty of foliage, as it wound away for miles through the heart of the mighty range.
Jack and Jill were mountain folk, having their home in the thick growth of greasewood and manzanita that covered the slopes, perhaps lying on isolated rocks in sunny places during the day, and only occasionally venturing down into the lowland at night, when their human enemies were sound asleep.
If foxes talk, I have no doubt that Jack and Jill were cautioned about these lowland expeditions by certain old and gray foxes, and warned that there was danger even at night. Be this as it may, Jack became the unfortunate possessor of the secret, brought, perhaps, on the wind itself, that in a certain ranch yard there were some dainty young chickens.
Jack, apparently, did not trust his secret to any one, not even to his companion Jill; and one night when it was very dark, and even the coyotes did not care to venture out, he strolled down the mountain, crept through the manzanita brush to a trail, and gayly trotted down into the valley.
Jack failed to appear the next morning, or the next thereafter, and Jill, in all probability, decided to look for him. At all events, on another night, when the moon was but a faint crescent against the sky, she stole quietly away, following the same trail over which Jack had passed a few nights before, until she saw a ranch house where lights were gleaming; then she stopped, raised her pointed nose high in air and sniffed, looked about her, and sniffed again. As she stepped around a tall yucca, she made out in the darkness a chicken roosting on a limb of greasewood. Here was a supper; and with a quick jump Jill seized the fowl. Then came a sharp, quick sound, and, uttering a cry of fear, poor Jill found herself caught in the jaws of a steel trap that held her fast. Struggles, tears (if foxes weep), moans, and howls were of no avail, but Jill fought fitfully for freedom throughout the long night. In the morning the rancher appeared, smiling as if he knew where Jack had gone. He released poor terrified Jill, and, instead of killing her, handled her injured paw carefully—so gently, in fact, that she made no attempt to bite. Taking her under his arm, he strode down to the ranch, jumped into his carriage, and an hour later drove into an orange grove in Pasadena. Here the first thing Jill saw, when released from the bag in which she had been carried, was Master Jack sitting under an orange tree, with a fine collar about his neck, and looking as comfortable as you please, except that he was holding up one paw. So he, too, had fallen a victim to the trap!