ON Sunday, May 30, 1897, while the church bells were calling saint and sinner to worship in the city of Gloucester, and a catbird's blithe music, supplemented by the silvery bells of a veery, was calling me to worship in my cabin dooryard, I turned to the path that leads to Magnolia Swamp.
Two years before, on the west side of the swamp, I had discovered a woodpecker's sap orchard. For two seasons I had carefully noted the work of the woodpeckers in their curious method of tapping trees, and I desired now to add to my knowledge by a few hours of observation.
"FOUND HIS OWLSHIP ON A LOW LIMB."
It was a glorious morning, bright with sunshine, tempered by a crisp air. It was one of the few sunshiny days rescued from a cold, rainy spring month. The trees were forward, and for the most part covered with full-grown leaves. The white oaks were late, as usual, their leaves were tiny, and at a distance looked to be a silvery gray in the sunshine. The hillsides west of Magnolia Swamp were lighted up by this immature gray foliage, while here and there the dark green of the pines afforded a pleasing contrast.
I found the sap orchard deserted. The trees, red maples and canoe-birches, were dead or dying. The sapsuckers and their self-invited guests, the humming-birds, had drained the life-blood of their helpless victims. All of the maples were still standing, but many of the gray birches had been broken off by the wind just below the belt of punctures.
While I was searching for another sap orchard, I saw a barred owl, with something in his bill, fly to a grove of small hemlocks. I followed on my hands and knees, and found his owlship on a low limb. Evidently this was his breakfast-hour. The thing in his bill proved to be a leopard frog. He was preparing to swallow the frog by crushing the bones of the legs and joints. He did not see me, or, if he did, he ignored my presence, and continued leisurely to prepare and swallow his breakfast. Afterward he spent several minutes preening his feathers before settling down for a Sunday nap. A pair of saucy chickadees, scouring the woods for a Sunday breakfast, discovered the owl and gave the alarm. Inside of two minutes I counted thirty-six birds, all called together by the cries of the chickadees. These birds included cuckoos, warblers, blue jays, thrushes, vireos, flycatchers, and buntings. How they did jeer and abuse the owl, but all were careful to keep at a safe distance. The blue jays seemed to be filled with fury, and if birds can swear, doubtless that owl listened to some very emphatic language.
For twenty minutes that patch of young hemlocks contained noise and life enough to stock a first-class aviary. The owl seemed bored, but was apparently fearless.
OWL CHASED.
Thirty-two minutes after the first alarm, all the birds had disappeared, excepting two red-eyed vireos. The vireos continued to scold vigorously. The owl had intruded on their nesting-ground. Not twenty feet away a vireo's nest swung lightly from the horizontal limb of a red beech. It seemed to me that the owl suspected the presence of the nest, for he thrust out his head and swung it from side to side as if searching for something. After awhile he discovered the nest, and flew to the beech limb. When he had commenced to approach the nest by short hitches along the limb, the vireos changed their scolding to cries of alarm. Immediately all the birds returned. Again the owl was told that he was a robber and a great rascal by every bird in the grove. As he continued to approach the nest, I thought it time to interfere. "Hold, there!" I shouted, and the effect on the owl was instantaneous. He stopped short, crouched on the limb, then twisted his impish face directly into the back of his neck, and glared at me with a frightened look in his wide-open eyes. After a brief inspection he tumbled forward off the limb, caught himself on his wings, and floated as noiseless as a feather into the dark shadows of Magnolia Swamp. I examined the vireo-nest and found it empty—in fact, it was not yet completed.
It was evident, from what took place, that birds of different species can communicate with each other.
First, the chickadees call other birds to the spot by cries that certainly are understood to mean danger.
Afterward, the vireos did the same thing. While the latter were scolding the owl, other birds paid no attention, but responded at once to their cries for help.
After the owl had disappeared, the birds scattered as before. The blue jays and two thrushes stopped back to interview me, and find out if my intentions were friendly.
When all the birds had disappeared except the vireos, I went in search of a new sap orchard. I soon found a clump of red maples containing two trees that had been tapped by woodpeckers. The belt of punctures on both trees was nearly a foot in width, but the woodpeckers did not show up during my three hours' tarry.
This woodpecker, the yellow-bellied (Sphyropicus varius), does not nest on the Cape, so had doubtless departed in migration, but three humming-birds were fighting for the sap-buckets, and a red squirrel settled matters by driving the hummers from one tree to the other.
YELLOW-BELLIED WOODPECKER.
The red squirrel was a new feature in a woodpecker's sap orchard. He did not cling to one spot, as squirrels do when tapping for themselves, but instead moved rapidly around the tree, thrusting his tongue into the drills for the sweet sap. I suppose the squirrel owned the territory where the maple-trees grew, and was more than willing that the woodpeckers should tap the trees for his benefit.
The drills made by the woodpecker extended through the outside bark and into the cambium layer. From my observation with a good glass, during several seasons, I found that the woodpeckers were after the elaborated sap that descends from the leaves, through the inner bark, and did not extend the drills into the wood where they would reach the crude sap flowing up from the roots. The wisdom of this procedure was evident. The elaborated sap is far richer in nutriment than the crude sap, and the woodpeckers knew more about the growth of trees than many human beings, so worked understandingly.
Each drill is made deep enough to hold about two drops of sap. The upper drills are the only ones to afford sap, which proves that it is certainly the elaborated sap flowing down from the leaves that the birds get.
I had read in works on ornithology that the woodpeckers tapped trees so that the sap would attract insects upon which they could feed. Also that the birds were after the soft bark, or cambium layer, for food.
While the woodpeckers do catch a fly now and then, it is evident, even to a careless observer, that it is the sap that is sought. I have seen them eat small pieces of the cambium layer, but I think they did so because the soft bark was soaked with sweet sap.
The three humming-birds made that little sunny glade in the forest as lively as a Mexican fandango. The two males were jealous of each other, and both birds seemed desperately in love with the demure maid. She attended strictly to business by drinking from the sap-buckets left unguarded by the red squirrel. The male hummers spent most of the time dancing in the air. They took turns in madly pursuing each other; the pursued never turned tail, but flew backward with a swiftness that was marvellous. The buzzing of their wings and their shrill cries furnished the music for the wild dance.
The humming-birds drink from the drills while poised in the air, but often alight and cling to the bark while drinking, the wings closed and silent.
Flies and hornets were in evidence, crawling on the bark of the maples, or flying around the drills. A hornet stung the squirrel on the ear. When I left, the latter was shaking his head and telling the hornets what he thought of them.
When I returned to the cabin, I found a pair of catbirds in trouble. They nested in a dense mass of shrubbery about eighty feet from the dooryard. The male catbird met me some distance from the nest, and by his excited cries I knew that some bird enemy was near at hand. When I came in sight of the nest I discovered the trouble. A black snake was making his way through the bushes toward the nest, and the mother-bird was waging a fierce but fruitless battle.
I killed the snake, which was over five feet in length. The nest contained four eggs. For the time being they were safe.
In due time the nest contained four baby catbirds. One moonlight night, about ten o'clock, there was a great outcry from the old catbirds. I had gone to bed, in my hammock, in the open air, with but a roof over me to keep off the rain, so I could hear the birds and knew that they were fighting to save their little ones. Before I could go to the rescue, one of the catbirds flew to the bushes within three feet of my head, and frantically called to me for help. When I came in sight of the nest I saw a snake drop to the ground. One of the young catbirds was missing. A hurried search beneath the bushes in the dim light was unsuccessful. The snake had silently and swiftly disappeared with his victim.
The old catbirds were pets of mine of several years' standing, and the tragic fate of the baby-bird caused me to try to save the other three. I removed the nest and placed it in a covered box in the cabin. The catbirds followed me to the cabin door, but made no protest. The next morning before sunrise the birds awoke me by their cries. When I was dressing they spent the time flying to and fro, from cabin to hammock, calling to me to hurry up and bring out their babies. Both birds had insects in their bills. I did not take the nest to the old spot, but instead placed it in a clump of bushes near the cabin. When I had secured the nest, the old birds gave the three babies their breakfast. This programme was followed day after day, until the young birds were old enough to fly.
About two hundred visitors one Sunday inspected the nest, and the old birds did not make a protest or show fear. They knew that I would protect their little ones. A clear case of bird intelligence.
Returning from the city, while the catbirds were rearing their young, I heard a great outcry from a number of birds in the cabin dooryard. At first I thought some bird enemy had destroyed the young catbirds, but I found them all right. Just over the wall in the bushes was a nest of the veery. This nest was in ruins. That morning it had contained four newly hatched birds. While I was examining the nest, one of the catbirds flew to a bush near me, and raised an outcry to attract my attention. I spoke to the bird, and immediately it flew to the old wall on the opposite side of the road. I went over, and saw the tail of a black snake hanging from the Hunting wall. I firmly grasped the tail, but could not pull the snake from between the rocks. I thought of a plan to get the reptile out. I pushed the tail into the wall, and when the snake had loosened his hold, by a strong pull I could gain a few inches. Twenty minutes' hard work brought the snake out so I could grasp him by the neck. He coiled around my arm with such power as to stop the circulation. It reminded me of a wire rope tightened by machinery. I unwound the coils and took my captive to a large dry-goods box. I made a cage out of another box by putting wire netting over the top. I placed the box on its side on some stakes, and introduced the snake. He tried every inch of that box and netting for means of escape. Two hours later he settled down for a good long sleep, and when he awoke he appeared contented. I offered him food, but he would not eat. For a month he did not eat or drink. I noticed that his skin was loose in patches.
"HE COILED AROUND MY ARM."
It was a month before the regular time for the black snake to shed its skin, but it was evident that this interesting event was about to take place. I put some rough rocks in the cage, and the snake pulled himself between them in such a way as to pull off the old skin. Before this, the snake was totally blind. He shed the skin over his eyes, and his sight was restored. Shortly after he had shed his skin he glided to the front of the cage and opened his mouth. I took this to mean food, and gave him a frog, which he swallowed. After this, whenever he was hungry, he would look at me with his mouth open. This snake was six feet and two inches in length, and large accordingly. His muscular power I had tested, and had found it to correspond to his size.
It is singular how many persons there are that think a snake's tongue is a stinger. My snake would run his tongue through the wire mesh, and sometimes I would touch it with a finger. At such times, the most of the visitors present would cry: "Look out, he'll sting you!"
My snake proved to be fond of music. Evenings I would play on the flute, while he would come to the front of his cage and listen. Some tunes would excite him so he would glide about the cage. The Swiss Waltz would always set him a-going. Shrill, discordant notes would send him to the darkest spot in his cage, where he would coil and remain so quiet as to appear lifeless. On the approach of cold weather the snake became torpid, and he was killed.
Some years, snakes, of all kinds indigenous to this climate, are numerous enough to destroy the nests of the small birds. Therefore I kill the snakes that are bird-hunters, because I prefer birds to snakes. I have found that some snakes, that come to my dooryard for my pets, are so crafty as to make it nearly impossible to kill them. A big black snake often came down the hill to the cabin, and when he had reached a boulder he would look around to see if I was there writing. This snake had a saucy, independent way of looking at me, as much as to say, "Are you the hermit?" A movement on my part toward a club sent the snake into the bushes. Throughout one season I tried my best to kill that black snake without success. The next year he did not appear. Very few snakes came out of winter quarters that spring.
Another black snake had determined to swallow a pet toad. The toad was a monster, and had escaped several times, but his hind legs were badly scarred. The toad would come to me for protection. Usually he would hop on to my feet when pursued. The snake was too crafty, to come near enough for me to use my snake-club. I was telling some visitors from the city about the toad and snake, when one young lady expressed a strong desire to see a live snake. While we were talking, I heard the toad cry out, and I knew that the snake was after him. I told my visitors to keep quiet and they would see the toad come to me for protection. The young lady that wanted to see a live snake gathered up her skirts and fled down the old highway. The toad came in sight, dragging the snake, which was clinging to a hind leg. When the snake saw us, he dropped his hold but did not retreat. The toad hopped on to my feet, nearly exhausted. The snake must have been made bold by hunger, for he made a rush for the toad. My snake-club was near at hand, and he was soon killed. The young lady that fled would not return until fully convinced that the snake was dead. She did not see the snake when he was alive, for she fled when I said one was coming.
A garter-snake made a home beneath my cabin. He was too small to injure birds, so I did not disturb him. He became very tame during the summer. His hole was under the door of my cabin. I could sit in the doorway, and when he was passing in or out, he would stop for me to rub his head. The second year he had increased in size. There was a chestnut-sided warbler's nest near the cabin, containing young birds. I heard cries of distress from the old birds, and when I investigated, found the garter-snake trying to get at the nest. I struck him with a small stick, and he hid in the weeds. That blow severed his friendship for me. If he returned to the cabin and saw me in the doorway, he would retreat until the coast was clear. Twice more I caught him at the birds' nest. He escaped each time. He must have come to the conclusion that I was protecting the birds for my own eating, for he left them after that. The next year he ate a pet frog and robbed several bird's nests. He had moved to an old stone wall, and did most of his hunting by night. He tried to loot a catbird's nest, but the birds gave the alarm, and the moon helped me to find the marauder. One blow and it was all over. It would have been pleasant to study this snake, but I could not allow my pet birds to be so cruelly persecuted.
