Whate’er birds did or
dreamed, this bird could say.
Then down he shot, bounced
airily along
The sward, twitched in a grasshopper,
made song
Midflight, perched, prinked,
and to his art again.
Sweet Science, this large
riddle read me plain:
How may the death of that
dull insect be
The life of yon trim Shakespeare,
on the tree?
SIDNEY LANIER.
“Superb and sole upon
a plumed spray
That o’er the general
leafage boldly grew,”
as literally as though Lanier had
sketched that particular bird, stood the first free
mocking-bird I ever heard. His perch was the topmost
twig of the tallest tree in the group. It was
a cedar, perhaps fifteen feet high, around which a
jasmine vine had clambered, and that morning opened
a cluster of fragrant blossoms at his feet, as though
an offering to the most noted singer on our side of
the globe. As I drew near he turned his clear,
bright eye upon me, and sang a welcome to North Carolina;
and several hours later, when the moon rose high over
the waters of the Sound, he completed his perfect
performance with a serenade, the like of which I fear
I may never hear again. I chose to consider his
attentions personal, because, of all the household,
I am sure I was the only one who listened, and I had
passed over many miles of rolling and tossing ocean
to make his acquaintance.
Nothing would have been easier, or
more delightful, than to pitch one’s tent in
a certain pine grove not far away, and pass days and
weeks in forgetting the world of cares, and reading
favorite books, lulled at all hours of day and night
by the softened roar of the ocean and the wonderful
bird
“Singing the song of
everything,
Consummate sweet, and calm.”
But it was not merely as singer that
I wished to know him; nor to watch his dainty and
graceful ways as he went about the daily duties of
food-hunting, singing, and driving off marauders, which
occupied his hours from dawn to late evening, and
left him spirit enough for many a midnight rhapsody.
It was in his domestic relations that I desired to
see him, the wooing of the bride and building
the nest, the training of mocking-bird babies and
starting them in the world; and no loitering and dreaming
in the pine grove, however tempting, would tell me
this. I must follow him to his more secluded
retreats, see where he had set up his homestead.
Thoreau or is it Emerson? says
one always finds what he looks for, and of course
I found my nests. One pair of birds I noticed
through the courtship, the selection of the site,
the building and occupying of the nest; another couple,
already sitting when discovered, I watched through
the incubation and nursing of the little ones, and
at last assisted in giving them a fair chance for
their lives and a start in the world. It may
be thought that my assistance was not particularly
valuable; the birds shared this opinion; none the less,
but for my presence not one of those birdlings would
be free and happy to-day, as I hope and believe they
are. To the study of these two households I gave
nearly every hour of daylight, in all weathers, for
a month, and of the life that went on in and around
them I can speak from personal knowledge; beyond that,
and at other times in his life, I do not profess to
know the mocking-bird.
The bird whose nest-making I witnessed
was the one whose performance I chose to consider
a welcome, and his home was in the pine grove, a group
of about twenty trees, left from the original forest
possibly, at any rate nearly a hundred feet high,
with all branches near the top, as though they had
grown in close woods. They were quite scattering
now, and lower trees and shrubs flourished in their
shade, making a charming spot, and a home worthy even
of this superb songster. The bird himself was
remarkably friendly. Seeming to appreciate my
attitude of admiring listener, he often perched on
the peak of a low roof (separated only by a carriage
drive from the upper “gallery” where I
sat), and sang for hours at a time, with occasional
lunches; or, as Lanier, his most ardent lover, has
it,
“Then down he shot,
bounced airily along
The sward, twitched in a grasshopper,
made song
Midflight, perched, prinked,
and to his art again.”
Whatever he did, his eyes were upon
me; he came to the corner nearest me to sing, and
was so intelligent in look and bearing that I believe
he liked a quiet listener.
His wooing, however, the bird did
not intend me to see, though two or three times I
surprised him at it. The first part that I chanced
upon was curious and amusing. A female, probably
the “beloved object,” stood demurely on
one of the dead top branches of a large tree down in
the garden, while her admirer performed fantastic
evolutions in the air about her. No flycatcher
ever made half the eccentric movements this aerial
acrobat indulged in. He flew straight up very
high, executing various extraordinary turns and gyrations,
so rapidly they could not be followed and described,
and came back singing; in a moment he departed in
another direction, and repeated the grotesque performance.
He was plainly exerting himself to be agreeable and
entertaining, in mocking-bird style, and I noticed
that every time he returned from an excursion he perched
a little nearer his audience of one, until, after
some time, he stood upon the same twig, a few inches
from her. They were facing and apparently trying
to stare each other out of countenance; and as I waited,
breathless, to see what would happen next, the damsel
coquettishly flitted to another branch. Then the
whole scene was repeated; the most singular and graceful
evolutions, the songs, and the gradual approach.
Sometimes, after alighting on a top twig, he dropped
down through the branches, singing, in a way to suggest
the “dropping song” so graphically described
by Maurice Thompson, but never really falling, and
never touching the ground. Each performance ended
in his reaching the twig which she occupied and her
flight to another, until at last, by some apparently
mutual agreement, both flew, and I saw no more.
A remarkable “dance” which
I also saw, with the same bird as principal actor,
seems to me another phase of the wooing, though I must
say it resembled a war-dance as well; but love is
so like war among the lower orders, even of men, that
it is hard to distinguish between them. I shall
not try to decide, only to relate, and, I beg to say,
without the smallest exaggeration. The dances
I saw were strictly pas-de-deux, and they always
began by a flash of wings and two birds alighting on
the grass, about a foot apart. Both instantly
drew themselves up perfectly erect, tail elevated
at an angle of forty-five degrees, and wings held
straight down at the sides. Then followed a most
droll dance. Number one stood like a statue,
while number two pranced around, with short, mincing
steps and dainty little hops which did not advance
him an inch; first he passed down the right, then
turned and went down the left, all in the queer, unnatural
manner of short hops and steps, and holding himself
rigidly erect, while number one always faced the dancer,
whichever way he turned. After a few moments of
this movement, number one decided to participate,
and when his partner moved to the right he did the
same; to the left he still accompanied him, always
facing, and maintaining the exact distance from him.
Then number two described a circle around number one,
who turned to face him with short hops where he stood.
Next followed a châsse of both birds to the
right; then a separation, one dancing to the right
and the other to the left, always facing, and always
slowly and with dignity. This stately minuet they
kept up for some time, and appeared so much like a
pair of old-fashioned human dancers that when, on
one occasion, number two varied the performance by
a spring over the head of his partner, I was startled,
as if an old gentleman had suddenly hopped over the
head of the grand dame his vis-a-vis.
When this strange new figure was introduced, number
one proved equal to the emergency, hopping backward,
and turning so dexterously that when his partner alighted
they were facing, and about a foot apart, as before.
The object of all this was very uncertain to a looker-on.
It might be the approaches of love, and quite as probably
the wary beginnings of war, and the next feature of
the programme was not explanatory; they rose together
in the air ten feet or more, face to face, fluttering
and snatching at each other, apparently trying to
clinch; succeeding in doing so, they fell to the ground,
separated just before they touched it, and flew away.
O wings! most maddening to a bird-student.
It was not very long after these performances,
which seem to me to belong to the courtship period,
when I noticed that my bird had won his bride, and
they were busy house-hunting. The place they apparently
preferred, and at last fixed upon, was at an unusual
height for mocking-birds, near the top of one of the
tall pines, and I was no less surprised than pleased
to see them lay the foundation of their home in that
spot. I congratulated myself that at least one
brood in North Carolina would have a chance to come
to maturity and be free; and so persistent is the
warfare waged against this bird unfortunately
marketable at any stage from the egg that
I almost doubt if another will. The day after
they began building a northwest storm set in, and
for three days we had high winds and cold weather.
In spite of this, the brave birds persevered, and
finished their nest during those three days, although
much of the time they made infrequent trips. It
was really most touching to watch them at their unnatural
task, and remember that nothing but the cruelty of
man forced them to it (one nest had been destroyed).
Their difficulty was to get up against the wind, and,
having little experience in flying upward, they made
the natural mistake of starting from the foot of their
chosen tree. Sometimes, at first, they flew with
the body almost perpendicular; and afterwards, when
they held the body in proper position, they wished
to go so directly up that they turned the head back
over the shoulder to see where they were going.
The wind, too, beat them far out of their course,
and they were obliged to alight and rest, occasionally
being forced to cling to the trunk of a tree to recover
breath and strength to go on. They never attempted
to make the whole ascent at once, but always stopped
four or five times, perching on the ends of fallen
branches, of which there were eight or ten below the
living part of the pine. Even when no wind disturbed
them, they made these pauses on the way, and it was
always a hard task to reach the top. They learned,
after a few days, however, to begin their ascent at
a distance, and not approach the tree till at least
half as high as they wished to go, which simplified
the matter very much. It was beautiful to see
them, upon reaching the lowest of the living branches,
bound gayly up, as though over a winding stair, to
the particular spot they had fixed upon.
During the building I missed the daily
music of the singer. Occasionally he alighted
on the roof, looked over at me, and bubbled out a few
notes, as much as to say, “You must excuse me
now; I am very busy;” but all the time I hoped
that while sitting was going on I should have him back.
I reckoned ignorantly; I did not know my bird.
No sooner was he the possessor of a house and family
than he suddenly became very wary. No more solos
on the roof; no more confidential remarks; no more
familiarities of any sort. Now he must beware
of human beings, and even when on the grass he held
himself very erect, wings straight down, every instant
on guard. His happiness demanded expression in
song, certainly, but instead of confining himself
to the roof he circled the lawn, which was between
two and three hundred feet wide. If he began in
a group of cedars on the right, he sang awhile there,
then flew to the fence next the road without a pause
in the music, and in a few minutes passed to the group
of pines at the left, perched on a dead branch, and
finished his song there. It was most tantalizing,
though I could but admit it a proof of intelligence.
Another change appeared in the bird
with the advent of family cares: he was more
belligerent; he drove the bluebird off the lawn, he
worried the tufted titmouse when it chanced to alight
on his tree, and in the most offensive way claimed
ownership of pine-trees, lawn, and all the fence bordering
the same. Neighboring mocking-birds disputed his
claim, and many a furious chase took place among the
trees. (So universal is their habit of insisting upon
exclusive right to certain grounds that two mocking-birds
are never found nesting very near each other, in that
part of the country. This I was assured, and
found it true of those I observed.) These little episodes
in his life kept the pine-tree bird from dullness,
while his mate was engaged in the top of the tall pine,
where, by the way, he went now and then to see how
she was getting on. Sometimes his spouse received
him amiably, but occasionally, I regret to say, I
heard a “huff” from the nest that said
plainly, “Don’t you touch those eggs!”
And what was amusing, he acknowledged her right to
dictate in the matter, and meekly took his departure.
Whenever she came down for a lunch, he saw her instantly,
and was ready for a frolic. He dropped to the
grass near her, and they usually indulged in a lively
romp, chasing each other over and through the trees,
across the yard, around the garden, and back to the
lawn, where she went on with her eating, and he resumed
his singing.
While I was watching the pine-tree
household, the other nest, in the top of a low, flat-topped
cedar, perhaps twenty-five feet high, and profusely
fringed with Spanish moss, became of even more interest.
I could not see into the nest, for there was no building
high enough to overlook it, but I could see the bird
when he stood upon the edge. Sitting, in a warm
climate, is not particularly close work. Although
the weather was cool, yet when the sun was out the
sitter left her nest from six to eight minutes at
a time, and as often as once in twenty minutes.
Of course in rain she had not so much liberty, and
on some days left only when her mate was ready to
take her place, which he frequently did.
On the ninth day of my watching (I
had not seen the beginning of the sitting), the 3d
of May, I found work was over and the youngsters were
out. There was much excitement in the cedar-tree,
but in a quiet way; in fact, the birds became so silent
and so wary in approaching the nest that it required
the closest watching to see them go or come, and only
occasionally could I detect any food in the beak.
I discovered very soon that mocking-bird babies are
brought up on hygienic principles, and have their
meals with great regularity. For some time both
parents were exceedingly busy, going and coming almost
constantly; then there came a rest of a half hour
or more, during which no food was brought. Each
bird had its own way of coming to the tree. Madam
came over the roof of the cottage where I sat, and
was exposed to view for only a few feet, over which
she passed so quickly and silently that I had to be
constantly on the alert to see her at all. The
singer had another way, and by rising behind a hickory-tree
beyond the cedar managed to keep a screen of branches
between him and myself nearly every foot of the way.
I could see them both almost every time, but I could
not always tell whether they carried food. Now
the bluebird, honest soul, always stops in plain sight
to rest, with his mouth full of dainties for his young
brood, and a robin will stand staring at one for two
minutes with three or four wriggling worms in his
beak. It is quite a different affair in the mocking-bird
family, as is certainly natural, after the persecution
it has endured. No special fear of me was the
cause, it is a marked peculiarity of the
bird; and I think, with a little study, one could
learn to know exactly the moment the eggs hatch by
the sudden silence and wariness of both birds.
Poor little creatures! a sympathetic friend hates
to add to the anxiety they suffer, and he cannot help
a feeling of reproach when the brave little head of
the family alights on the fence, and looks him straight
in the eye, as if to demand why he is subjected to
all this annoyance. I had to console myself by
thinking that I was undoubtedly a providence to him;
for I am certain that nothing but my watching him
so conspicuously that every negro within a mile saw
me, saved his family to him, so low and easy of access
was the nest.
The day those nestlings were one week
old they uttered their first cry. It was not
at all a “peep,” but a cry, continued a
few seconds; at first only when food was offered to
them, but as they increased in age and strength more
frequently. It was much like a high-pitched “[=e]-[=e]-[=e],”
and on the first day there was but one voice, which
grew rapidly stronger as the hours went by. The
next day another and a weaker cry joined the first,
now grown assured and strong. But the music of
the father was hushed the moment the youngsters began;
from that time until they had left the nest, he sang
not a note in my hearing. Perhaps he was too
busy, though he never seemed to work so hard as the
robin or oriole; but I think it was cautiousness,
for the trouble of those parents was painful to witness.
They introduced a new sound among their musical notes,
a harsh squawk; neither dog nor negro could cross the
yard without being saluted with it. As for me,
though I was meekness itself, taking the most obscure
position I could find, and remaining as absolutely
motionless as possible, they eyed me with suspicion;
from the first they “huffed” at me, and
at this point began to squawk the moment I entered
the gate. On one occasion I discovered that by
changing my seat I could actually see the nest, which
I much desired; so I removed while the birds were
absent. Madam was the first to return, with a
beakful of food; she saw me instantly, and was too
much excited to dispose of her load. She came
to my side of her tree, squawked loudly, flapping
her wings and jerking herself about. I remained
motionless and did not look at her, pretending to
be absorbed in my book; but she refused to be mollified.
It evidently did not please her to have me see so
plainly; she desired to retain the friendly screen
of leaves which had secured her a small measure of
privacy. I could not blame her; I felt myself
intrusive; and at last I respected her wishes and returned
to my old place, when she immediately calmed down and
administered the food she had held till then.
Poor mother! those were trying times. Her solicitude
overpowered her discretion, and her manner proclaimed
to every one within hearing that the nestlings were
out. Then, too, on the eighth day the little
ones added their voices, and soon called loudly enough
to attract the dullest of nest-robbers. I was
so fearful lest that nest should be disturbed that
I scarcely dared to sleep o’ nights; the birds
themselves were hardly more anxious than I was.
The eleventh day of the birdlings’
life was exceedingly warm, without a breath of air
stirring, suffocating to humanity, but preeminently
inspiring to mocking-birds, and every singer within
a mile of me, I am sure, was singing madly, excepting
the newly made parent. Upon reaching my usual
seat I knew at once, by the louder cry, that a young
bird was out of the nest, and after some searching
through the tree I found him, a yellowish-drab
little fellow, with very decided wing-markings, a
tail perhaps an inch in length, and soft slate-colored
spots, so long as almost to be streaks, on the breast.
He was scrambling about the branches, always trying
to get a higher place, calling and perking his insignificant
tail in true mocking-bird fashion. I think the
parents disapproved this early ambition, for they
did not feed him for a long time, though they passed
him to go to the nest. So far from being lightened,
their cares were greatly increased by the precociousness
of the youngster, and from this moment their trouble
and worry were grievous to see. So much self-reliance
has the mocking-bird, even in the nest, that he cannot
be kept there until his legs are strong enough to
bear his weight, or his wings ready to fly. The
full-grown spirit of the race blossoms out in the
young one at eleven days, and for several more he
is exposed to so many dangers that I wonder there is
one left in the State.
The parents, one after the other,
came down on to a bush near my seat to remonstrate
with me; and I must admit that so great was my sympathy,
and so uncomfortable did I feel at adding in the least
to their anxiety, that I should never have seen that
young family fledged, only that I knew perfectly well
what they did not, that I was a protection to them.
I tried to reassure the mother by addressing her in
her own language (as it were), and she turned quickly,
looked, listened, and returned to her tree, quieted.
This sound is a low whistling through the teeth, which
readily soothes cage birds. It interests and calms
them, though I have no notion what it means to them,
for I am speaking an unknown tongue.
The baby on the tree was not quiet,
climbing about the branches every moment that he was
not engaged in dressing his feathers, the first and
most important business of the newly emancipated nestling.
After an hour or more of watching there was a sudden
stir in the family, and the youngster made his appearance
on the ground. He was not under the side of the
tree on which he had been resting, so, although I did
not see the passage, I knew he had not fallen, as
he is popularly said to do, but flown as well as he
was able. I started slowly down the yard to examine
the little stranger, but was absolutely startled by
a cry from the mother, that sounded exactly like “Go
’way!” as I have often heard a negro girl
say it. Later it was very familiar, a yearning,
anxious heart-aching sound to hear.
The youth was very lively, starting
off at once on his travels, never for an instant doubting
his own powers. I saw his first movement, which
was a hop, and, what surprised and delighted me, accompanied
by a peculiar lifting of the wings, of which I shall
have more to say. He quickly hopped through the
thin grass till he reached a fence, passed down beside
it till a break in the pickets left an open place on
the bottom board, sprang without hesitation upon that,
and after a moment’s survey of the country beyond
dropped down on the farther side. Now that was
a lane much frequented by negroes, and, being alarmed
for his safety, I sent a boy after him, and in a moment
had him in my hand. He was a beautiful little
creature, having a head covered with downy dark feathers,
and soft black eyes, which regarded me with interest,
but not at all with fear. All this time, of course,
the parents were scolding and crying, and I held him
only long enough to look carefully at him, when I
replaced him on the grass. Off he started at once,
directly west, like the “march of
empire,” went through the same fence
again, but further down, and, as I could tell by the
conduct of the parents, in a few moments was safely
through a second fence into a comparatively retired
old garden beyond, where I hoped he would be unmolested.
Thus departed number one, with energy and curiosity,
to investigate a brand-new world, fearless in his
ignorance and self-confidence, although his entrance
into the world had not been the triumphant fly we might
look for, but an ignominious “flop,” and
was irresistibly and ludicrously suggestive of the
manner of exit from the home nest of sundry individuals
of our own race, which we consider of much greater
importance.
The young traveler set out at exactly
ten o’clock. As soon as he was out of sight,
though not out of hearing, for the youngster
as well as the parents kept the whole world of boys
and cats well informed of his whereabouts for three
days, I returned and gave my attention to
number two, who was now out upon the native tree.
This one was much more quiet than his predecessor.
He did not cry, but occasionally uttered a mocking-bird
squawk, though spending most of his time dressing his
plumage, in preparation for the grand entree.
At twelve o’clock he made the plunge and came
to the ground in a heap. This was plainly a bird
of different disposition from number one; his first
journey evidently tired him. He found the world
hard and disappointing, so he simply stayed where
he dropped in the middle of the path, and refused to
move, though I touched him as a gentle reminder of
the duty he owed to his parents and his family.
He sat crouched upon the gravel and looked at me with
calm black eye, showing no fear and certainly no intention
of moving, even indulging in a nap while I waited.
Now appeared upon the scene several
persons, both white and black, each of whom wanted
a young mocking-bird for a cage; but I stood over him
like a god-parent and refused to let any one touch
him. I began to fear that I should have him on
my hands at last, for even the parents seemed to appreciate
his characteristics and to know that he could not be
hurried, and both were still busy following the vagaries
of number one. The mother now and then returned
to look after him and was greatly disturbed by his
unnatural conduct and so was I. He appeared
stupid, as if he had come out too soon, and did not
even know how to hop. It was twenty minutes by
the watch before he moved. His mother’s
calls at last aroused him; he raised himself upon
his shaky little legs, cried out, and started off
exactly as number one had done, westward,
hopping, and lifting his wings at every step.
Then I saw by the enormous amount of white on his
wings that he was a singer. He went as far as
the fence, and there he paused again. In vain
did the mother come and scold; in vain did I try to
push him along. He simply knew his own will, and
meant to have it; the world might be strange, but
he was not in the least interested. He rested
in that spot fifteen or twenty minutes more, while
I stood guard as before, and preserved him from cages
of both negroes and whites. At last he did manage
to squeeze through the fence, and, much relieved,
I left him to the old birds, one of whom was down in
the lot beyond the garden, no doubt following up his
ambitious first-born.
Whoever, meanwhile, was left in the
nest had a poor chance of food, and one was already
crying. It was not until six o’clock that
the birds seemed to remember the nestling; then it
was well fed, and left again. Nothing would be
easier than to follow the wandering youngsters, see
how they got on and how soon they were able to fly,
but this so disturbed the parents I had not the heart
to do it; and besides I feared they would starve the
infants, for one was never fed while I was near.
Doubtless their experience of the human race forbade
their confiding in the kindly intentions of any one.
It was well that only two of the young appeared in
one day, for keeping track of them was so serious a
matter that two parents could scarcely manage it.
Number three differed from both of
his elders; he was a cry-baby. He was not bright
and lively like number one, and he did not squawk like
number two, but he cried constantly, and at six P.
M. I left him calling and crying at the top of his
voice. Very early the next morning I hastened
to the scene of yesterday’s excitement.
Number three was out on the tree. I could hear
number two still crying and squawking in the garden,
and from the position and labors of the male I concluded
that number one was in the next lot. It was a
dismal, damp morning, every grass-blade loaded with
water, and a heavy fog driving in from the sea.
I hoped number three would know enough to stay at home,
but his fate was upon him, and no rain was ever wet
enough to overcome destiny. At about eight o’clock
he stretched his little wings and flew to the ground, a
very good flight for his family, nearly thirty feet,
twice as far as either of his predecessors had gone;
silently, too, no fuss about it. He
began at once the baby mocker’s hop with lifted
wings, headed for the west fence, jumped upon the
lower board, squeezed through and was off down the
garden before the usual crowd of spectators had collected
to strive for his head. I was delighted.
The parents, who were not near when he flew, came
back soon and found him at once. I left him to
them and returned to my place.
But silence seemed to have fallen
upon the cedar, late so full of life. In vain
I listened for another cry; in vain I watched for another
visit from the parents. All were busy in the
garden and lot, and if any baby were in that nest
it must surely starve. Occasionally a bird came
back, hunted a little over the old ground in the yard,
perched a moment on the fence, and saluted me with
a low squawk, but their interest in the place was
plainly over.
After two hours I concluded the nest
was empty; and a curious performance of the head of
the late family convinced me it was so. He came
quite near to me, perched on a bush in the yard, fixed
his eyes on me, and then, with great deliberation,
first huffed, then squawked, then sang a little, then
flew. I do not know what the bird meant to say,
but this is what it expressed to me: “You’ve
worried us all through this trying time, but you didn’t
get one of our babies! Hurrah!”
In the afternoon I had the nest brought
down to me. For foundation it had a mass of small
twigs from six to eight inches long, crooked and forked
and straight, which were so slightly held together
that they could only be handled by lifting with both
hands, and placing at once in a cloth, where they
were carefully tied in. Within this mass of twigs
was the nest proper, thick and roughly constructed,
three and a half inches in inside diameter, made of
string, rags, newspaper, cotton wadding, bark, Spanish
moss, and feathers, lined with fine root fibre, I
think. The feathers were not inside for lining,
but outside on the upper edge. It was, like the
foundation, so frail that, though carefully managed,
it could only be kept in shape by a string around it,
even after the mass of twigs had been removed.
I have a last year’s nest, made of exactly the
same materials, but in a much more substantial manner;
so perhaps the cedar-tree birds were not so skillful
builders as some of their family.
The mocking-bird’s movements,
excepting in flight, are the perfection of grace;
not even the cat-bird can rival him in airy lightness,
in easy elegance of motion. In alighting on a
fence, he does not merely come down upon it; his manner
is fairly poetical. He flies a little too high,
drops like a feather, touches the perch lightly with
his feet, balances and tosses upward his tail, often
quickly running over the tips of half a dozen pickets
before he rests. Passing across the yard, he turns
not to avoid a taller tree or shrub, nor does he go
through it; he simply bounds over, almost touching
it, as if for pure sport. In the matter of bounds
the mocker is without a peer. The upward spring
while singing is an ecstatic action that must be seen
to be appreciated; he rises into the air as though
too happy to remain on earth, and opening his wings,
floats down, singing all the while. It is indescribable,
but enchanting to see. In courtship, too, as
related, he makes effective use of this exquisite
movement. In simple food-hunting on the ground, a
most prosaic occupation, truly, on approaching
a hummock of grass he bounds over it instead of going
around. In alighting on a tree he does not pounce
upon the twig he has selected, but upon a lower one,
and passes quickly up through the branches, as lithe
as a serpent. So fond is he of this exercise
that one which I watched amused himself half an hour
at a time in a pile of brush; starting from the ground,
slipping easily through up to the top, standing there
a moment, then flying back and repeating the performance.
Should the goal of his journey be a fence picket,
he alights on the beam which supports it, and hops
gracefully to the top.
Like the robin, the mocking-bird seeks
his food from the earth, sometimes digging it, but
oftener picking it up. His manner on the ground
is much like the robin’s; he lowers the head,
runs a few steps rapidly, then erects himself very
straight for a moment. But he adds to this familiar
performance a peculiar and beautiful movement, the
object of which I have been unable to discover.
At the end of a run he lifts his wings, opening them
wide, displaying their whole breadth, which makes
him look like a gigantic butterfly, then instantly
lowers his head and runs again, generally picking
up something as he stops. A correspondent in
South Carolina, familiar with the ways of the bird,
suggests that his object is to startle the grasshoppers,
or, as he expresses it, to “flush his game.”
I watched very closely and could not fix upon any
theory more plausible, though it seemed to be weakened
by the fact that the nestlings, as mentioned above,
did the same thing before they thought of looking
for food. The custom is not invariable; sometimes
it is done, and sometimes not.
The mocking-bird cannot be said to
possess a gentle disposition, especially during the
time of nesting. He does not seem malicious, but
rather mischievous, and his actions resemble the naughty
though not wicked pranks of an active child.
At that time he does, it must be admitted, lay claim
to a rather large territory, considering his size,
and enforces his rights with many a hot chase and noisy
dispute, as remarked above. Any mocking-bird
who dares to flirt a feather over the border of the
ground he chooses to consider his own has to battle
with him. A quarrel is a curious operation, usually
a chase, and the war-cry is so peculiar and apparently
so incongruous that it is fairly laughable. It
is a rough breathing, like the “huff” of
an angry cat, and a serious dispute between the birds
reminds one of nothing but a disagreement in the feline
family. If the stranger does not take the hint,
and retire at the first huff, he is chased, over and
under trees and through branches, so violently that
leaves rustle and twigs are thrust aside, as long
as the patience or wind holds out. On one occasion
the defender of his homestead kept up a lively singing
all through the furious flight, which lasted six or
eight minutes, a remarkable thing.
To others than his own kind the mocker
seems usually indifferent, with the single exception
of the crow. So long as this bird kept over the
salt marsh, or flew quite high, or even held his mouth
shut, he was not noticed; but let him fly low over
the lawn, and above all let him “caw,”
and the hot-headed owner of the place was upon him.
He did not seem to have any special plan of attack,
like the kingbird or the oriole; his aim appeared
to be merely to worry the enemy, and in this he was
untiring, flying madly and without pause around a perching
crow until he took flight, and then attempting to
rise above him. In this he was not always successful,
not being particularly expert on the wing, though I
have two or three times seen the smaller bird actually
rest on the back of the foe for three or four seconds
at a time.
The song of the free mocking-bird!
With it ringing in my ear at this moment, after having
feasted upon it and gloried in it day and night for
many weeks, how can I criticise it! How can I
do otherwise than fall into rhapsody, as does almost
every one who knows it and delights in it, as I do!
It is something for which one might pine and long,
as the Switzer for the Ranz-des-Vaches,
and the more one hears it the more he loves it.
I think there will never come a May in my life when
I shall not long to fold my tent and take up my abode
in the home of the mocking-bird, and yet I cannot
say what many do. For variety, glibness, and
execution the song is marvelous. It is a brilliant,
bewildering exhibition, and one listens in a sort
of ecstasy almost equal to the bird’s own, for
this, it seems to me, is the secret of the power of
his music; he so enjoys it himself, he throws his
whole soul into it, and he is so magnetic that he
charms a listener into belief that nothing can be
like it. His manner also lends enchantment; he
is seldom still. If he begins in a cedar-tree,
he soon flies to the fence, singing as he goes, thence
takes his way to a roof, and so on, changing his place
every few minutes, but never losing a note. His
favorite perch is the top spire of a pointed tree,
low cedar or young pine, where he can bound into the
air as already described, spread his wings, and float
down, never omitting a quaver. It seems like
pure ecstasy; and however critical one may be, he
cannot help feeling deep sympathy with the joyous soul
that thus expresses itself. With all the wonderful
power and variety, the bewitching charm, there is
not the “feeling,” the heavenly melody,
of the wood-thrush. As an imitator, I think he
is much overrated. I cannot agree with Lanier
that
“Whate’er birds
did or dreamed, this bird could say;”
and that the birds are jealous of
his song, as Wilson says, seems absurd. On the
contrary, I do not think they recognize the counterfeit.
The tufted titmouse called as loudly and constantly
all day as though no mocking-bird shouted his peculiar
and easily imitated call from the house-top; the cardinal
grosbeak sang every day in the grove, though the mocker
copied him more closely than any other bird. He
repeats the notes, rattles out the call, but he cannot
put the cardinal’s soul into them. The
song of every bird seems to me the expression of himself;
it is a perfect whole of its kind, given with proper
inflections and pauses, and never hurried; whereas,
when the mocker delivers it, it is simply one more
note added to his repertory, uttered in his rapid
staccato, in his loud, clear voice, interpolated between
incongruous sounds, without expression, and lacking
in every way the beauty and attraction of the original.
The song consists entirely of short
staccato phrases, each phrase repeated several times,
perhaps twice, possibly five or six times. If
he has a list of twenty or thirty, and
I think he has more, he can make almost
unlimited changes and variety, and can sing for two
hours or longer, holding his listener spellbound and
almost without consciousness that he has repeated
anything.
So winning and so lasting is the charm
with which this bird enthralls his lovers that scarcely
had I left his enchanted neighborhood before everything
else was forgotten, and there remain of that idyllic
month only beautiful pictures and delightful memories.
“O thou heavenly bird!”