Birds and Nature, Vol. 10 No. 1 [June 1901]

It has been my experience that the Great Northern Shrike hunts most successfully when he, so to speak, flies down his prey. If he gets a small bird well started out into the open and with cover at a long distance ahead, the shrike generally manages to overtake and overpower his victim. If the quarry, however, is sought in the underbrush or in the close twined branches of the treetop, it generally succeeds in eluding the butcher. One of the most interesting incidents of all my bird observations was that of the attempted capture by a Great Northern Shrike of a small brown creeper. The scene of the action was near the south end of the Lincoln Park lagoon in Chicago. The creeper was nimbly climbing a tree hole, industriously picking out insects, as is his custom, when a shrike dropped down after him from its high perch on a tree which stood close and overshadowed the one from whose bark the creeper was gleaning its breakfast. The shrike was seen coming. The creeper, for the fraction of a second, flattened itself and clung convulsively to the tree trunk. Then, recovering, it darted to the other side of the hole, while the shrike brought up abruptly and clumsily just at the spot where the creeper had been. The discomfited bird went back to its perch. The creeper rounded the tree once more and down went the shrike. The tactics of a moment before were repeated, the shrike going back to its perch chagrined and empty clawed. Five times it made the attempt to capture the creeper, and every time the little bird eluded its enemy by a quick retreat. It was a veritable game of hide and seek, amusing and interesting for the spectator, but to the birds a game of life and death. Life won. I ever have believed thoroughly that the creeper thought out the problem of escape for itself. The last time the shrike went back to its perch the creeper did not show round the trunk again, but instead flew away, keeping the hole of the tree between itself and its foe. It reached a place of safety unseen. The shrike watched for the quarry to reappear. In a few moments it grew impatient and flew down and completely circled the tree. Then, seemingly knowing that it had been fooled, it left the place in disgust.

Of the boldness of the Great Northern Shrike there can be no question. It allows man to approach within a few feet and looks him in the eye with a certain haughty defiance, showing no trace of nervousness, save the flirting of his tail, which is a characteristic of the bird and in no way attributable to fear or uneasiness. One morning early in March, when the migration had just started, I saw two shrikes on the grass in the very center of the ball ground at the south end of Lincoln Park. They were engaged in a pitched battle, and went for each other much after the manner of game cocks. The feathers literally flew. I looked at them through a powerful field glass and saw a small dark object on the grass at the very point of their fighting. Then I knew that the battle was being waged for the possession of an unfortunate bird victim. The birds kept up the fight for fully two minutes. Then, being anxious to find out just what the dead bird was which had given rise to the row, I walked rapidly toward the combatants. They paid no heed to me until I was within twenty feet of the scene of their encounter. Then they flew away. I kept my eyes on the much ruffled body of the little victim lying on the grass and, walking toward it, I stooped over to pick it up. At that instant, as quick as the passing of light, one of the shrikes darted under my hand, seized the quarry and made off with it. It was an exhibition of boldness that did not fail to win admiration. I did not have the chance to learn what bird it was that had fallen a victim to the shrikes’ rapacity and had been the cause of that battle royal.

The Great Northern Shrike when it is attempting to capture a mouse, or a small bird that has taken refuge in a bush, hovers over the quarry almost precisely after the manner of the sparrow hawk. There are few more fascinating sights in nature than that of the bird with its body absolutely motionless, but with its wings moving with the rapidity of the blades of an electric fan. Sharply outlined against the sky, it fixes the attention and rouses an interest that leaves little room for sympathy with the intended victim that one knows is cowering below. A mouse in the open has little chance for escape from the clutches of the hovering shrike. Birds, however, which have wisdom enough to stay in the bush and trust to its shelter rather than to launch out into open flight, are more than apt to escape with their lives. In February last I saw two shrike-pursued English sparrows take to the cover of a vine-covered lilac shrub. They sought a place well near the roots. While flying they had shown every symptom of fear and were making a better pace than I had ever seen one of their tribe make before. The shrike brought itself up sharply in midair directly over the lilac, and there it hovered on light wing and looked longingly downward through the interlacing stems at the sparrows. It paid no heed to its human observer, who was standing within a few feet and who, to his amazement, saw an utter absence of any appearance of fear on the part of the sparrows. They apparently knew that; the shrike could not strike them down because of the intervening branches. They must have known also that owing to the comparative clumsiness of their pursuer when making its way on foot through and along twigs and limbs, that they could easily elude him if he made an attempt at capture after that manner. Finally the shrike forsook the tip of the lilac bush and began working its way downward along the outer edge of the shrub. When it had approached to a point as near as the sparrows thought was comfortable, they shifted their position in the bush. The shrike saw that the quest was useless unless he could start them to flight. He tried it, but they were too cunning for him, and he at last gave up the chase, the progress of which actually seemed to humiliate him. He flew afar off, where, perhaps, the prospects of dinner were better.

I once saw a goldfinch in winter plumage escape a Great Northern Shrike by taking a flight directly at the zenith. The shrike followed the dainty little tidbit far up, until the larger bird was only a speck and the little one had disappeared entirely. The shrike apparently could neither stand the pace nor the altitude, and the watchers, with whom the goldfinch was the favorite in the race, rejoiced with the winner.

Edward Brayton Clark.

ORIOLE

 
Hush! ’Tis he!
My oriole, my glance of summer fire,
Is come at last, and, ever on the watch,
Twitches the pack-thread I had lightly wound
About the bough to help his housekeeping —
Twitches and scouts by turns, blessing his luck,
Yet fearing me who laid it in his way,
Nor, more than wiser we in our affairs,
Divines the providence that hides and helps.
 

– James Russell Lowell, “Under the Willows.”

THE FIRE-BIRD

This Oriole is one of the most brilliantly colored of our common birds. The name oriole is from “aureolus,” meaning, little bird in gold. Ruskin says that on the plumes of birds the gold of the cloud is put, that cannot be gathered of any covetousness.

There is a story to the effect that when, in 1628, Lord Baltimore was exploring the Chesapeake, worn out and discouraged, he was so much cheered by the sight and sound of the oriole that he adopted its colors as his own, hence the name, “Baltimore Oriole.”

This bird, however, rejoices in several other cognomens, such as English Robin, Golden Robin, Hang-nest Bird, Fire-Finch, and Golden Oriole. He is both esthetic and utilitarian, being beautiful, musical, social and also useful in that he feeds upon insects most injurious to vegetation; especially the harmful small kinds passed over unnoticed by the birds of other species.

The Baltimore Oriole is fond of sweets. He has been seen to snip off the heads of white-headed or stingless bees and draw out the viscera through the ring-like opening, for the sake of the honey sack. How did he know it was there? How did he learn that he could get at it in this way? The poet naturalist, Thompson, well says of him:

 
“You whisk wild splendors through the trees,
And send keen fervors down the wind;
You singe the jackets of the bees,
And trail an opal mist behind.
 
 
“When flowery hints foresay the berry,
On spray of haw and tuft of briar,
Then wandering incendiary,
You set the maple swamps afire.”
 

While the Oriole’s song is not especially melodious to me, it is fresh and cheerful, with something of a human element in its child-like whistle. Young birds in the nest cry “cree-te-te-te-te-te.”

This bird is fond of building near the habitations of men, selecting sites in door-yards, orchards, and lawns. He weaves an artistic habitation at airy heights, choosing strong, flexible material for the pendant, bag-like nest. In California, the Arizona hooded oriole weaves nests of the beautiful Spanish moss; but one occasionally uses the love-vine or yellow dodder to construct a gaudy, pocket-like nest. The Fire-bird would not do this, for it always selects for its nest grayish, bleached material in harmony with the limbs of the trees. An experiment was tried of placing a bunch of colored yarns near its nesting-place, in order to see what, if it used them, the choice of colors would be. It selected all the gray threads, and, when nearly done, a few blue and purple, but not a single red, or green or yellow strand. The strongest and best material is used for the part by which the whole is supported.

The Baltimore Oriole is sometimes on intimate terms with his relative, the Orchard Oriole. Last summer the latter had hung its pretty cup-shaped nest on a branch of weeping willow near my window. The tedium of her sitting was relieved several times by a morning call from Sir Baltimore. He would seat himself on a twig near her nest and utter a soft, clear note, which no doubt meant a greeting in bird language. When he went away a few moments later, his two notes sounded strangely like “A – dieu” – a translation for which Olive Thorn Miller is authority.

But his song and his speech were less heeded than the spectacle of his brilliant flight —

 
“For look! The flash of flaming wings
The fire plumed oriole.”
 

Belle Paxson Drury.

BRANDT’S CORMORANT
(Phalacrocorax penicillatus.)

There are about thirty species of Cormorants which are distributed throughout the world. Ten of these are known to inhabit North America. They are ocean birds, yet they are also occasionally seen on the larger bodies of fresh water. The Pacific coast of North America and the shores of New Zealand are rich in species and their plumage is more beautiful than that of those found in other parts of the world.

The name Cormorant is derived from the Latin words Corvus Marinus, meaning marine crow or raven. This name may have been suggested by the fact that these birds are fond of sitting on an elevated perch, especially after a hearty meal. In this habit of seeking high perches, and because of their dark color, they resemble the raven or crow. The generic name Phalacrocorax is derived from the Greek words, meaning bald crow.

One of the species that frequents the coast of Europe is easily tamed and in early times was trained to fish for its master. There was even an appointment in the royal household known as the “Master of the Cormorants.” When used in fishing “a strap is fastened around the bird’s neck so as, without impeding its breath, to hinder it from swallowing its captures. Arrived at the waterside, it is cast off. It at once dives and darts along the bottom as swiftly as an arrow in quest of its prey, rapidly scanning every hole or pool. A fish is generally seized within a few seconds of its being sighted and as each is taken the bird rises to the surface with its capture in its bill. It does not take much longer to dispose of the prize in the dilatable skin of its throat so far as the strap will allow and the pursuit is recommenced until the bird’s gular pouch, capacious as it is, will hold no more. It then returns to its keeper, who has been anxiously watching and encouraging its movements, and a little manipulation of its neck effects the delivery of the booty.”

The Cormorants are voracious eaters. They catch the fish, which is their usual food, under water by rapid swimming and with the aid of their hooked bills. On account of this habit of the bird the word Cormorant has been used synonymously with the word glutton, rapacious or avaricious when applied to a person who exhibits these traits.

Brandt’s Cormorant, the bird of our illustration, is found on the Pacific coast from the state of Washington southward to Cape St. Lucas at the southern extremity of Lower California. In its habits it is gregarious and collects in great numbers wherever its natural food of fish is plentiful. These flocks present a very odd appearance and their long necks appear as numerous black sticks on the watery background.

Mr. Leverett M. Loomis well illustrates the habits of these birds in a report on the California Water birds. He says of a rookery “which is situated on a rock, or little islet, in the ocean at the extremity of Point Carmel, about fifteen yards from the mainland. This rock rises perpendicularly some forty or more feet above the water. At first sight it does not seem that it can be scaled, but closer inspection reveals that a foothold may be had in the seams and protuberances on its water-worn sides. Only on days when the sea is very calm can the rock be landed upon and then only from the sheltered channel separating it from the mainland. We first took a view of the rookery from the mainland. The Cormorants were very tame, remaining on their nests while we clambered down the sloping rocks and while we stood watching them on the same level, only a few yards away. They were equally tame when our boat drew nearer as we approached from the water. The clefts in the sides of the rock were occupied by Baird’s Cormorant and the top by Brandt’s. There were comparatively few of the former, but of the Brandt’s Cormorant there were upwards of two hundred pairs. Their nests covered the top of the rock, every available situation being occupied. Standing in one place I counted one hundred and eighteen.”

He also states that the Cormorants remained on the nests till he fired his gun and they lingered on the edge of the rock while he walked among the nests a few yards away. On the rock were many piles of sardines, evidently placed near the nests for the use of the sitting bird.

The nests are nearly circular when placed on top of the rocks, and are usually constructed of eel grass. They are generally placed in the most inaccessible places and at various heights above the surface of the water. The Cormorants frequent the same locality from year to year and experience considerable difficulty in constructing their nests because of the gulls which frequently carry away the material as fast as it can be gathered. The young, when first hatched, are entirely devoid of plumage and their skin resembles a “greasy, black kid glove.” It is said that the gulls feed upon these young birds.

Mr. Frank M. Woodruff relates the following observations, made during a recent trip to California. He says:

“The Brandt’s Cormorant is the common species wintering in Southern California. Like the California brown pelican and the surf ducks, only the juvenile birds are found in the bay close to the city of San Diego. As one rows about the harbor close to the shipping docks and by the old deserted fishermen’s huts along the slips, large numbers of Brandt’s Cormorants and pelicans can be seen perched on and almost covering the sunny sides of the roof tops. They sit in rows like sentinels with the head well down upon the shoulders, undisturbed by the noise of traffic and only by continued rapping on the building with an oar can they be induced to take to flight. They will usually circle for a short time in a lazy manner and then return to their old position. The older birds are rather more wary and usually feed a mile or so from the shore, in flocks of from three to ten. The loose kelp floating in the bay attracts the smaller fish. Such places form their feeding grounds. After they become gorged with fish, they fly to the rocks along the jetties and to the cross bars of the buoys, which mark the deep water channels. The birds are perfect gluttons, and as I lifted it into the boat there dropped from the gular sack of one specimen that I shot, over twenty small fish. The beautiful iridescence of the dark copper-green plumage of the adult Cormorant can only be appreciated when the freshly killed bird is seen.”

Seth Mindwell.