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TRAVELERS in the Sierra
forests usually complain of the want of life. "The trees," they say, "are
fine, but the empty stillness is deadly; there are no animals to be seen, no
birds. We have not heard a song in all the woods." And no wonder! They go in
large parties with mules and horses; they make a great noise; they are
dressed in outlandish, unnatural colors; every animal shuns them. Even the
frightened pines would run away if they could. But Nature- lovers, devout,
silent, open-eyed, looking and listening with love, find no lack of
inhabitants in these mountain mansions, and they come to them gladly. Not to
mention the large animals or the small insect people, every waterfall has
its ouzel and every tree its squirrel or tamias or bird: tiny nuthatch
threading the furrows of the bark, cheerily whispering to itself as it
deftly pries off loose scales and examines the curled edges of lichens; or
Clarke crow or jay examining the cones; or some singer - oriole, tanager,
warbler—resting, feeding, attending to domestic affairs. Hawks and eagles
sail overhead, grouse walk in happy flocks below, and song sparrows sing in
every bed of chaparral. There is no crowding, to be sure. Unlike the low
Eastern trees, those of the Sierra in the main forest belt average nearly
two hundred feet in height, and of course many birds are required to make
much show in them, and many voices to fill them. Nevertheless, the whole
range, from foothills to snowy summits, is shaken into song every summer;
and though low and thin in winter, the music never ceases.
The sage cock (Centrocercus
urophasianus) is the largest of the Sierra game-birds and the king of
American grouse. It is an admirably strong, hardy, handsome, independent
bird, able with comfort to bid defiance to heat, cold, drought, hunger, and
all sorts of storms, living on whatever seeds or insects chance to come in
its way, or simply on the leaves of sage-brush, everywhere abundant on its
desert range. In winter, when the temperature is oftentimes below zero, and
heavy snowstorms are blowing, he sits beneath a sage bush and allows himself
to be covered, poking his head now and then through the snow to feed on the
leaves of his shelter. Not even the Arctic ptarmigan is hardier in braving
frost and snow and wintry darkness. When in full plumage he is a beautiful
bird, with a long, firm, sharp-pointed tail, which in walking is slightly
raised and swings sidewise back and forth with each step. The male is
handsomely marked with black and white on the neck, back, and wings, weighs
five or six pounds, and measures about thirty inches in length. The female
is clad mostly in plain brown, and is not so large. They occasionally wander
from the sage plains into the open nut pine and juniper woods, but never
enter the main coniferous forest. It is only in the broad, dry, half-desert
sage plains that they are quite at home, where the weather is blazing hot in
summer, cold in winter. If any one passes through a flock, all squat on the
gray ground and hold their heads low, hoping to escape observation; but when
approached within a rod or so, they rise with a magnificent burst of
wing-beats, looking about as big as turkeys and making a noise like a
whirlwind. On the 28th
of June, at the head of Owen's Valley, I caught one of the young that was
then just able to fly. It was seven inches long, of a uniform gray color,
blunt-billed, and when captured cried lustily in a shrill piping voice,
clear in tone as a boy's small willow whistle. I have seen flocks of from
ten to thirty or forty on the east margin of the Park, where the Mono Desert
meets the gray foothills of the Sierra; but since cattle have been pastured
there they are becoming rarer every year.
Another magnificent bird, the
blue or dusky grouse, next in size to the sage cock, is found all through
the main forest belt, though not in great numbers. They like best the
heaviest silver-fir woods near garden and meadow openings, where there is
but little underbrush to cover the approach of enemies. When a flock of
these brave birds, sauntering and feeding on the sunny, flowery levels of
some hidden meadow or Yosemite valley far back in the heart of the
mountains, see a man for the first time in their lives, they rise with
hurried notes of surprise and excitement and alight on the lowest branches
of the trees, wondering what the wanderer may be, and showing great
eagerness to get a good view of the strange vertical animal. Knowing nothing
of guns, they allow you to approach within a half dozen paces, then quietly
hop a few branches higher or fly to the next tree without a thought of
concealment, so that you may observe them as long as you like, near enough
to see the fine shading of their plumage, the feathers on their toes, and
the innocent wonderment in their beautiful wild eyes.' But in the
neighborhood of roads and trails they soon become shy, and when disturbed
fly into the highest, leafiest trees, and suddenly become invisible, so well
do they know how to hide and keep still and make use of their protective
coloring. Nor can they be easily dislodged ere they are ready to go. In vain
the hunter goes round and round some tall pine or fir into which he has
perhaps seen a dozen enter, gazing up through the branches, straining his
eyes while his gun is held ready; not a feather can he see unless his eyes
have been sharpened by long experience and knowledge of the blue grouse's
habits. Then, perhaps, when he is thinking that the tree must be hollow and
that the birds are all inside, they burst forth with a startling whir of
wing-beats, and after gaining full speed go skating swiftly away through the
forest arches in a long, silent, wavering slide, with wings held steady.
During the summer they are most of the time on
the ground, feeding on insects, seeds, berries, etc., around the margins of
open spots and rocky moraines, playing and sauntering, taking sun baths and
sand baths, and drinking at little pools and rills during the heat of the
day. In winter they live mostly in the trees, depending on buds for food,
sheltering beneath dense overlapping branches at night and during storms on
the lee-side of the trunk, sunning themselves on the southside limbs in fine
weather, and sometimes diving into the mealy snow to flutter and wallow,
apparently for exercise and fun.
I have seen young broods running beneath the
firs in June at a height of eight thousand feet above the sea. On the
approach of danger, the mother with a peculiar cry warns the helpless
midgets to scatter and hide beneath leaves and twigs, and even in plain open
places it is almost impossible to discover them. In the mean time the mother
feigns lameness, throws herself at your feet, kicks and gasps and flutters,
to draw your attention from the chicks. The young are generally able to fly
about the middle of July; but even after they can fly well they are usually
advised to run and hide and lie still, no matter how closely approached,
while the mother goes on with her loving, lying acting, apparently as
desperately concerned for their safety as when they were featherless
infants. Sometimes, however, after carefully studying the circumstances, she
tells them to take wing; and up and away in a blurry birr and whir they
scatter to all points of the compass, as if blown up with gunpowder,
dropping cunningly out of sight three or four hundred yards off, and keeping
quiet until called, after the danger is supposed to be past. If you walk on
a little way without manifesting any inclination to hunt them, you may sit
down at the foot of a tree near enough to see and hear the happy reunion.
One touch of nature makes the whole world kin; and it is truly wonderful how
love-telling the small voices of these birds are, and how far they reach
through the woods into one another's hearts and into ours. The tones are so
perfectly human and so full of anxious affection, few mountaineers can fail
to be touched by them.
They are cared for until full grown. On the 20th of August, as I was passing
along the margin of a garden spot on the head-waters of the San Joaquin, a
grouse rose from the ruins of an old juniper that had been uprooted and
brought down by an avalanche from a cliff overhead. She threw herself at my
feet, limped and fluttered and gasped, showing, as I thought, that she had a
nest and was raising a second brood. Looking for the eggs, I was surprised
to see a strong-winged flock nearly as large as the mother fly up around me.
Instead of seeking a warmer climate when the
winter storms set in, these hardy birds stay all the year in the high Sierra
forests, and I have never known them to suffer in any sort of weather. Able
to live on the buds of pine, spruce, and fir, they are forever independent
in the matter of food supply, which gives so many of us trouble, dragging us
here and there away from our best work. How gladly I would live on pine
buds, however pitchy, for the sake of this grand independence! With all his
superior resources, man makes more distracting difficulty concerning food
than any other of the family.
The mountain quail, or plumed partridge (Oreortyx
pictus plumiferus) is common in all the upper portions of the Park, though
nowhere in numbers. He ranges considerably higher than the grouse in summer,
but is unable to endure the heavy storms of winter. When his food is buried,
he descends the range to the brushy foothills, at a height of from two
thousand to three thousand feet above the sea; but like every true
mountaineer, he is quick to follow the spring back into the highest
mountains. I think he is the very handsomest and most interesting of all the
American partridges, larger and handsomer than the famous Bob White, or even
the fine California valley quail, or the Massena partridge of Arizona and
Mexico. That he is not so regarded, is because as a lonely mountaineer he is
not half known. His
plumage is delicately shaded, brown above, white and rich chestnut below and
on the sides, with many dainty markings of black and white and gray here and
there, while his beautiful head plume, three or four inches long, nearly
straight, composed of two feathers closely folded so as to appear as one, is
worn jauntily slanted backward like a single feather in a boy's cap, giving
him a very marked appearance. They wander over the lonely mountains in
family flocks of from six to fifteen, beneath ceanothus, manzanita, and wild
cherry thickets, and over dry sandy flats, glacier meadows, rocky ridges,
and beds of Bryanthus around glacier lakes, especially in autumn, when the
berries of the upper gardens are ripe, uttering low clucking notes to enable
them to keep together. When they are so suddenly disturbed that they are
afraid they cannot escape the danger by running into thickets, they rise
with a fine hearty whir and scatter in the brush over an area of half a
square mile or so, a few of them diving into leafy trees. But as soon as the
danger is past, the parents with a clear piping note call them together
again. By the end of July the young are two thirds grown and fly well,
though only dire necessity can compel them to try their wings. In gait,
gestures, habits, and general behavior they are like domestic chickens, but
infinitely finer, searching for insects and seeds, looking to this side and
that, scratching among fallen leaves, jumping up to pull down grass heads,
and clucking and muttering in low tones.
Once when I was seated at the foot of a tree on
the head-waters of the Merced, sketching, I heard a flock up the valley
behind me, and by their voices gradually sounding nearer I knew that they
were feeding toward me. I kept still, hoping to see them. Soon one came
within three or four feet of me, without noticing me any more than if I were
a stump or a bulging part of the trunk against which I was leaning, my
clothing being brown, nearly like the bark. Presently along came another and
another, and it was delightful to get so near a view of these handsome
chickens perfectly undisturbed, observe their manners, and hear their low
peaceful notes. At last one of them caught my eye, gazed in silent wonder
for a moment, then uttered a peculiar cry, which was followed by a lot of
hurried muttered notes that sounded like speech. The others, of course, saw
me as soon as the alarm was sounded, and joined the wonder talk, gazing and
chattering, astonished but not frightened. Then all with one accord ran back
with the news to the rest of the flock. "What is it? what is it? Oh, you
never saw the like," they seemed to be saying. "Not a deer, or a wolf, or a
bear; come see, come see." "Where? where?" "Down there by that tree." Then
they approached cautiously, past the tree, stretching their necks, and
looking up in turn as if knowing from the story told them just where I was.
For fifteen or twenty minutes they kept coming and going, venturing within a
few feet of me, and discussing the wonder in charming chatter. Their
curiosity at last satisfied, they began to scatter and feed again, going
back in the direction they had come from; while I, loath to part with them,
followed noiselessly, crawling beneath the bushes, keeping them in sight for
an hour or two, learning their habits, and finding out what seeds and
berries they liked best.
The valley quail is not a mountaineer, and
seldom enters the Park except at a few of the lowest places on the western
boundary. It belongs to the brushy foothills and plains, orchards and
wheatfields, and is a hundred times more numerous than the mountain quail.
It is a beautiful bird, about the size of the Bob White, and has a handsome
crest of four or five feathers an inch long, recurved, standing nearly erect
at times or drooping forward. The loud calls of these quails in the spring -
pe-checkah, pe-check-a, hoy, hoy - are heard far and near over all the
lowlands. They have vastly increased in numbers since the settlement of the
country, notwithstanding the immense numbers killed every season by boys and
pothunters as well as the regular legginged sportsmen from the towns; for
man's destructive action is more than counterbalanced by increased supply of
food from cultivation, and by the destruction of their enemies - coyotes,
skunks, foxes, hawks, owls, etc. - which not only kill the old birds, but
plunder their nests. Where coyotes and skunks abound, scarce one pair in a
hundred is successful in raising a brood. So well aware are these birds of
the protection afforded by man, even now that the number of their wild
enemies has been greatly diminished, that they prefer to nest near houses,
notwithstanding they are so shy. Four or five pairs rear their young around
our cottage every spring. One year a pair nested in a straw pile within four
or five feet of the stable door, and did not leave the eggs when the men led
the horses back and forth within a foot or two. For many seasons a pair
nested in a tuft of pampas grass in the garden; another pair in an ivy vine
on the cottage roof, and when the young were hatched, it was interesting to
see the parents getting the fluffy dots down. They were greatly excited, and
their anxious calls and directions to their many babes attracted our
attention. They had no great difficulty in persuading the young birds to
pitch themselves from the main roof to the porch roof among the ivy, but to
get them safely down from the latter to the ground, a distance of ten feet,
was most distressing. It seemed impossible the frail soft things could avoid
being killed. The anxious parents led them to a point above a spira bush,
that reached nearly to the eaves, which they seemed to know would break the
fall. Anyhow they led their chicks to this point, and with infinite coaxing
and encouragement got them to tumble themselves off. Down they rolled and
sifted through the soft leaves and panicles to the pavement, and, strange to
say, all got away unhurt except one that lay as if dead for a few minutes.
When it revived, the joyful parents, with their brood fairly launched on the
journey of life, proudly led them down the cottage hill, through the garden,
and along an osage orange hedge into the cherry orchard. These charming
birds even enter towns and villages, where the gardens are of good size and
guns are forbidden, sometimes going several miles to feed, and returning
every evening to their roosts in ivy or brushy trees and shrubs.
Geese occasionally visit the Park, but never
stay long. Sometimes on their way across the range, a flock wanders into
Hetch-Hetchy or Yosemite to rest or get something to eat, and if shot at,
are often sorely bewildered in seeking a way out. I have seen them rise from
the meadow or river, wheel round in a spiral until a height of four or five
hundred feet was reached, then form ranks and try to fly over the wall. But
Yosemite magnitudes seem to be as deceptive to geese as to men, for they
would suddenly find themselves against the cliffs not a fourth of the way to
the top. Then turning in confusion, and screaming at the strange heights,
they would try the opposite side, and so on until exhausted they were
compelled to rest, and only after discovering the river caņon could they
make their escape. Large, harrow- shaped flocks may often be seen crossing
the range in the spring, at a height of at least fourteen thousand feet.
Think of the strength of wing required to sustain so heavy a bird in air so
thin. At this elevation it is but little over half as dense as at the sea
level. Yet they hold bravely on in beautifully dressed ranks, and have
breath enough to spare for loud honking. After the crest of the Sierra is
passed it is only a smooth slide down the sky to the waters of Mono, where
they may rest as long as they like.
Ducks of five or six species, among which are
the mallard and wood duck, go far up into the heart of the mountains in the
spring, and of course come down in the fall with the families they have
reared. A few, as if loath to leave the mountains, pass the winter in the
lower valleys of the Park at a height of three thousand to four thousand
feet, where the main streams are never wholly frozen over, and snow never
falls to a great depth or lies long. In summer they are found up to a height
of eleven thousand feet on all the lakes and branches of the rivers except
the smallest, and those beside the glaciers encumbered with drifting ice and
snow. I found mallards and wood ducks at Lake Tenaya, June 1, before the
ice-covering was half melted, and a flock of young ones in Bloody Caņon
Lake, June 20. They are usually met in pairs, never in large flocks. No
place is too wild or rocky or solitary for these brave swimmers, no stream
too rapid. In the roaring, resounding caņon torrents, they seem as much at
home as in the tranquil reaches and lakes of the broad glacial valleys.
Abandoning themselves to the wild play of the waters, they go drifting
confidingly through blinding, thrashing spray, dancing on boulder-dashed
waves, tossing in beautiful security on rougher water than is usually
encountered by sea birds when storms are blowing.
A mother duck with her family of ten little
ones, waltzing round and round in a pothole ornamented with foam bells, huge
rocks leaning over them, cascades above and below and beside them, made one
of the most interesting bird pictures I ever saw.
I have never found the great northern diver in
the Park lakes. Most of them are inaccessible to him. He might plump down
into them, but would hardly be able to get out of them, since, with his
small wings and heavy body, a wide expanse of elbow room is required in
rising. Now and then one may be seen in the lower Sierra lakes to the
northward about Lassens Butte and Shasta, at a height of four thousand to
five thousand feet, making the loneliest places lonelier with the wildest of
wild cries. Plovers are
found along the sandy shores of nearly all the mountain lakes, tripping
daintily on the water's edge, picking up insects; and it is interesting to
learn how few of these familiar birds are required to make a solitude
cheerful. Sandhill
cranes are sometimes found in comparatively small marshes, mere dots in the
mighty forest. In such spots, at an elevation of from six thousand to eight
thousand feet above the sea, they are occasionally met in pairs as early as
the end of May, while the snow is still deep in the surrounding fir and
sugar-pine woods. And on sunny days in autumn, large flocks may be seen
sailing at a great height above the forests, shaking the crisp air into
rolling waves with their hearty koor-r-r, koor-r-r, uck-uck, soaring in
circles for hours together on their majestic wings, seeming to float without
effort like clouds, eyeing the wrinkled landscape outspread like a map
mottled with lakes and glaciers and meadows and streaked with shadowy canons
and streams, and surveying every frog marsh and sandy flat within a hundred
miles. Eagles and hawks
are oftentimes seen above the ridges and domes. The greatest height at which
I have observed them was about twelve thousand feet, over the summits of
Mount Hoffman, in the middle region of the Park. A few pairs had their nests
on the cliffs of this mountain, and could be seen every day in summer,
hunting marmots, mountain beavers, pikas, etc. A pair of golden eagles have
made their home in Yosemite ever since I went there thirty years ago. Their
nest is on the Nevada Fall Cliff, opposite the Liberty Cap. Their screams
are rather pleasant to hear in the vast gulfs between the granite cliffs,
and they help the owls in keeping the echoes busy.
But of all the birds of the high Sierra, the
strangest, noisiest, and most notable is the Clarke crow (Nucifraga
columbiana). He is a foot long and nearly two feet in extent of wing, ashy
gray in general color, with black wings, white tail, and a strong, sharp
bill, with which he digs into the pine cones for the seeds on which he
mainly subsists. He is quick, boisterous, jerky, and irregular in his
movements and speech, and makes a tremendously loud and showy advertisement
of himself, - swooping and diving in deep curves across gorges and val1ys
from ridge to ridge, alighting on dead spars, looking warily about him, and
leaving his dry, springy perches trembling from the vigor of his kick as he
launches himself for a new flight, screaming from time to time loud enough
to be heard more than a mile in still weather. He dwells far back on the
high storm-beaten margin of the forest, where the mountain pine, juniper,
and hemlock grow wide apart on glacier pavements and domes and rough
crumbling ridges, and the dwarf pine makes a low crinkled growth along the
flanks of the Summit peaks. In so open a region, of course, he is well seen.
Everybody notices him, and nobody at first knows what to make of him. One
guesses he must be a woodpecker; another a crow or some sort of jay, another
a magpie. He seems to be a pretty thoroughly mixed and fermented compound of
all these birds, has all their strength, cunning, shyness, thievishness, and
wary, suspicious curiosity combined and condensed. He flies like a
woodpecker, hammers dead limbs for insects, digs big holes in pine cones to
get at the seeds, cracks nuts held between his toes, cries like a crow or
Stellar jay, - but in a far louder, harsher, and more forbidding tone of
voice, - and besides his crow caws and screams, has a great variety of small
chatter talk, mostly uttered in a fault-finding tone. Like the magpie, he
steals articles that can be of no use to him. Once when I made my camp in a
grove at Cathedral Lake, I chanced to leave a cake of soap on the shore
where I had been washing, and a few minutes afterward I saw my soap flying
past me through the grove, pushed by a Clarke crow.
In winter, when the snow is deep, the cones of
the mountain pines are empty, and the juniper, hemlock, and dwarf pine
orchard buried, he comes down to glean seeds in the yellow pine forests,
startling the grouse with his loud screams. But even in winter, in calm
weather, be stays in his high mountain home, defying the bitter frost. Once
I lay snowbound through a three days' storm at the timber-line on Mount
Shasta; and while the roaring snow- laden blast swept by, one of these brave
birds came to my camp, and began hammering at the cones on the topmost
branches of half- buried pines, without showing the slightest distress. I
have seen Clarke crows feeding their young as early as June 19, at a height
of more than ten thousand feet, when nearly the whole landscape was
snow-covered. They are
excessively shy, and keep away from the traveler as long as they think they
are observed; but when one goes on without seeming to notice them, or sits
down and keeps still, their curiosity speedily gets the better of their
caution, and they come flying from tree to tree, nearer and nearer, and
watch every motion. Few, I am afraid, will ever learn to like this bird, he
is so suspicious and self-reliant, and his voice is so harsh that to most
ears the scream of the eagle will seem melodious compared with it. Yet the
mountaineer who has battled and suffered and struggled must admire his
strength and endurance, - the way he faces the mountain weather, cleaves the
icy blasts, cares for his young, and digs a living from the stern
wilderness. Higher yet
than Nucifraga dwells the little dun-headed sparrow (Leucosticte tephrocotis).
From early spring to late autumn he is to be found only on the snowy, icy
peaks at the head of the glacier cirques and canons. His feeding grounds in
spring are the snow sheets between the peaks, and in midsummer and autumn
the glaciers. Many bold insects go mountaineering almost as soon as they are
born, ascending the highest summits on the mild breezes that blow in from
the sea every day during steady weather; but comparatively few of these
adventurers find their way down or see a flower bed again. Getting tired and
chilly, they alight on the snow fields and glaciers, attracted perhaps by
the glare, take cold, and die. There they lie as if qn a white cloth
purposely outspread for them, and the dun sparrows find them a rich and
varied repast requiring no pursuit, - bees and butterflies on ice, and many
spicy beetles, a perpetual feast, on tables big for guests so small, and in
vast banqueting halls ventilated by cool breezes that ruffle the feathers of
the fairy brownies. Happy fellows, no rivals come to dispute possession with
them. No other birds, not even hawks, as far as I have noticed, live so
high. They see people so seldom, they flutter around the explorer with the
liveliest curiosity, and come down a little way, sometimes nearly a mile, to
meet him and conduct him into their icy homes.
When I was exploring the Merced group, climbing
up the grand caņon between the Merced and Red Mountains into the fountain
amphitheater of an ancient glacier, just as I was approaching the small
active glacier that leans back in the shadow of Merced Mountain, a flock of
twenty or thirty of these little birds, the first I had seen, came down the
caņon to meet me, flying low, straight toward me as if they meant to fly in
my face. Instead of attacking me or passing by, they circled round my head,
chirping and fluttering for a minute or two, then turned and escorted me up
the caņon, alighting on the nearest rocks on either hand, and flying ahead a
few yards at a time to keep even with me.
I have not discovered their winter quarters.
Probably they are in the desert ranges to the eastward, for I never saw any
of them in Yosemite, the winter refuge of so many of the mountain birds.
Hummingbirds are among the best and most
conspicuous of the mountaineers, flashing their ruby throats in countless
wild gardens far up the higher slopes, where they would be least expected.
All one has to do to enjoy the company of these mountain-loving midgets is
to display a showy blanket or handkerchief.
The arctic bluebird is another delightful
mountaineer, singing a wild, cheery song and "carrying the sky on his back"
over all the gray ridges and domes of the subalpine region.
A fine, hearty, good-natured lot of woodpeckers
dwell in the Park, and keep it lively all the year round. Among the most
notable of these are the magnificent log cock (Ceophicens pileatus), the
prince of Sierra woodpeckers, and only second in rank, as far as I know, of
all the woodpeckers of the world; the Lewis woodpecker, large, black,
glossy, that flaps and flies like a crow, does but little hammering, and
feeds in great part on wild cherries and berries; and the carpenter, who
stores up great quantities of acorns in the bark of trees for winter use.
The last-named species is a beautiful bird, and far more common than the
others. In the woods of the West he represents the Eastern red-head. Bright,
cheerful, industrious, not in the least shy, the carpenters give delightful
animation to the open Sierra forests at a height of from three thousand to
fifty-five hundred feet, especially in autumn, when the acorns are ripe.
Then no squirrel works harder at his pine-nut harvest than these woodpeckers
at their acorn harvest, drilling holes in the thick, corky bark of the
yellow pine and incense cedar, in which to store the crop for winter use, -
a hole for each acorn, so nicely adjusted as to size that when the acorn,
point foremost, is driven in, it fits so well that it cannot be drawn out
without digging around it. Each acorn is thus carefully stored in a dry bin,
perfectly protected from the weather, - a most laborious method of stowing
away a crop, a granary for each kernel. Yet the birds seem never to weary at
the work, but go on so diligently that they seem determined to save every
acorn in the grove. They are never seen eating acorns at the time they are
storing them, and it is commonly believed that they never eat them or intend
to eat them, but that the wise birds store them and protect them from the
depredations of squirrels and jays, solely for the sake of the worms they
are supposed to contain. And because these worms are too small for use at
the time the acorns drop, they are shut up like lean calves and steers, each
in a separate stall with abundance of food, to9grow big and fat by the time
they will be most wanted, that is, in winter, when insects are scarce and
stall- fed worms most valuable. So these woodpeckers are supposed to be a
sort of cattle- raisers, each with a drove of thousands, rivaling the ants
that raise grain and keep herds of plant lice for milk cows. Needless to say
the story is not true, though some naturalists, even, believe it. When
Emerson was in the Park, having heard the worm story and seen the great
pines plugged full of acorns, he asked (just to pump me, I suppose), "Why do
the woodpeckers take the trouble to put acorns into the bark of the trees?"
"For the same reason," I replied, "that bees store honey and squirrels
nuts." "But they tell me, Mr. Muir, that woodpeckers don't eat acorns."
"Yes, they do," I said, "I have seen them eating them. During snowstorms
they seem to eat little besides acorns. I have repeatedly interrupted them
at their meals, and seen the perfectly sound, half-eaten acorns. They eat
them in the shell as some people eat eggs." "But what about the worms?" "I
suppose," I said, "that when they come to a wormy one they eat both worm and
acorn. Anyhow, they eat the sound ones when they can't find anything they
like better, and from the time they store them until they are used they
guard them, and woe to the squirrel or jay caught stealing." Indians, in
times of scarcity, frequently resort to these stores and chop them out with
hatchets; a bushel or more may be gathered from a single cedar or pine.
The common robin, with all his familiar notes
and gestures, is found nearly everywhere throughout the Park, - in shady
dells beneath dogwoods and maples, along the flowery banks of the streams,
tripping daintily about the margins of meadows in the fir and pine woods,
and far beyond on the shores of glacier lakes and the slopes of the peaks.
How admirable the constitution and temper of this cheery, graceful bird,
keeping glad health over so vast and varied a range! In all America he is at
home, flying from plains to mountains, up and down, north and south, away
and back, with the seasons and supply of food. Oftentimes in the High
Sierra, as you wander through the solemn woods, awe-stricken and silent, you
will hear the reassuring voice of this fellow wanderer ringing out sweet and
clear as if saying, "Fear not, fear not. Only love is here." In the severest
solitudes he seems as happy as in gardens and apple orchards.
The robins enter the Park as soon as the snow
melts, and go on up the mountains, gradually higher, with the opening
flowers, until the topmost glacier meadows are reached in June and July.
After the short summer is done, they descend like most other summer visitors
in concord with the weather, keeping out of the first heavy snows as much as
possible, while lingering among the frost-nipped wild cherries on the slopes
just below the glacier meadows. Thence they go to the lower slopes of the
forest region, compelled to make haste at times by heavy all-day storms,
picking up seeds or benumbed insects by the way; and at last all, save a few
that winter in Yosemite valleys, arrive in the vineyards and orchards and
stubble-fields of the lowlands in November, picking up fallen fruit and
grain, and awakening old- time memories among the white-headed pioneers, who
cannot fail to recognize the influence of so homelike a bird. They are then
in flocks of hundreds, and make their way into the gardens of towns as well
as into the parks and fields and orchards about the bay of San Francisco,
where many of the wanderers are shot for sport and the morsel of meat on
their breasts. Man then seems a beast of prey. Not even genuine piety can
make the robin-killer quite respectable. Saturday is the great slaughter day
in the bay region. Then the city pothunters, with a rag-tag of boys, go
forth to kill, kept in countenance by a sprinkling of regular sportsmen
arrayed in self-conscious majesty and leggings, leading dogs and carrying
hammerless, breech-loading guns of famous makers. Over the fine landscapes
the killing goes forward with shameful enthusiasm. After escaping countless
dangers, thousands fall, big bagfuls are gathered, many are left wounded to
die slowly, no Red Cross Society to help them. Next. day, Sunday, the blood
and leggings vanish from the most devout of the bird-butchers, who go to
church, carrying gold-headed canes instead of guns. After hymns, prayers,
and sermon they go home to feast, to put God's song birds to use, put them
in their dinners instead of in their hearts, eat them, and suck the pitiful
little drumsticks. It is only race living on race, to be sure, but
Christians singing Divine Love need not be driven to such straits while
wheat and apples grow and the shops are full of dead cattle. Song birds for
food! Compared with this, making kindlings of pianos and violins would be
pious economy. The
larks come in large flocks from the hills and mountains in the fall, and are
slaughtered as ruthlessly as the robins. Fortunately, most of our song birds
keep back in leafy hidings, and are comparatively inaccessible.
The water-ouzel, in his rocky home amid foaming
waters, seldom sees a gun, and of all the singers I like him the best. He is
a plainly dressed little bird, about the size of a robin, with short, crisp,
but rather broad wings, and a tail of moderate length, slanted up, giving
him, with his nodding, bobbing manners, a wrennish look. He is usually seen
fluttering about in the spray of falls and the rapid cascading portions of
the main branches of the rivers. These are his favorite haunts; but he is
often seen also on comparatively level reaches and occasionally on the
shores of mountain lakes, especially at the beginning of winter, when heavy
snowfalls have blurred the streams with sludge. Though not a water-bird in
structure, he gets his living in the water, and is never seen away from the
immediate margin of streams. He dives fearlessly into rough, boiling eddies
and rapids to feed at the bottom, flying under water seemingly as easily as
in the air. Sometimes he wades in shallow places, thrusting his head under
from time to time in a nodding, frisky way that is sure to attract
attention. His flight is a solid whir of wing-beats like that of a
partridge, and in going from place to place along his favorite string of
rapids he follows the windings of the stream, and usually alights on some
rock or snag on the bank or out in the current, or rarely on the dry limb of
an overhanging tree, perching like a tree bird when it suits his
convenience. He has the oddest, neatest manners imaginable, and all his
gestures as he flits about in the wild, dashing waters bespeak the utmost
cheerfulness and confidence. He sings both winter and summer, in all sorts
of weather, - a sweet, fluty melody, rather low, and much less keen and
accentuated than from the brisk vigor of his movements one would be led to
expect. How romantic
and beautiful is the life of this brave little singer on the wild mountain
streams, building his round bossy nest of moss by the side of a rapid or
fall, where it is sprinkled and kept fresh and green by the spray! No wonder
he sings well, since all the air about him is music; every breath he draws
is part of a song, and he gets his first music lessons before he is born;
for the eggs vibrate in time with the tones of the waterfalls. Bird and
stream are inseparable, songful and wild, gentle and strong, - the bird ever
in danger in the midst of the stream's mad whirlpools, yet seemingly
immortal. And so I might go on, writing words, words, words; but to what
purpose? Go see him and love him, and through him as through a window look
into Nature's warm heart. |
