When I heard the familiar chickadee call—the titmouse often chirrups like his cousin—it made me quake guiltily. What would the birds do? The gray pair came flying in with crests raised, and my small friend hopped down to her doorway. She gave a start of surprise at sight of the feathers, but after a moment's hesitation went bravely in! While she was inside, her mate waited in the tree, singing for her; and when she came out, he flew away with her. Then I crept up to the oak, and to my delight found that all the feathers had disappeared. She evidently believed in taking what the gods provide. In fact, she seemed only to wish that they would provide more, for, after taking a second supply from me, she stood in the vestibule, cocked her crested head, and looked about as if expecting to see new treasures.
She had common-sense enough to take what she found at hand, but if she had not been such a plucky little builder she would have been scared away by the strange sights that afterwards met her at her nest. Once when she came, feathers were sticking in the bark all around the crack. She hesitated—the rush of her flight probably fanned the air so the white plumes waved in her face—she hesitated and looked around timidly before getting courage to go in; and on leaving the nest flew away in nervous haste; but she was soon back again, and ready to take the feathers down inside the oak. She caught hold of the tip of one that was wedged into a crack, and tugged and tugged till I was afraid she would get discouraged and go off without it. She got it, however, and drew it in backwards. Then she attacked another feather, but finding that it came harder than the first, let go her hold and took an easier one. She was not to be daunted, though, and after stowing away the loose one came back for the tight one again, and persevered till she bent it in several places, besides breaking off the tip.
When she had flown off, I jumped up, ran to the oak, and stuffed the doorway full of feathers. Before I had finished, the family sentinel caught me—I had been in too much of a hurry and he had heard me walking over the cornstalks. He eyed me suspiciously and gave vent to his disapproval, but I addressed him in such friendly terms that he soon flew off and talked to his mate reassuringly, as if he had decided that it was all right after all. After their conversation she came back and made the best of her way right down through the feather-bed! I went away delighted with her perseverance, and charmed by her confidence and pretty performances.
The next day I heard the titmouse singing in an elder by the kitchen, and went out to see how the birds acted when gathering their own material. The songster was idly hunting through the branches, singing, while his mate—busy little housewife—was hard at work getting her building stuff. She had something in her beak when I caught sight of her, but in an instant was down on the ground after another bit. Then she flew up in the tree looking among the leaves; in passing she swung a moment on a strap hanging from a branch; then flew down among the weeds, back up in the tree again; and so back and forth, over and over, her bill getting fuller and fuller.
I was glad to save her work, and interested to see how far she would accept my help. Once when I blocked the entrance with feathers and horsehair she stopped, and, though her bill was full, picked up the packet and flew out on a branch with it. Was she going to throw away my present? For a moment my faith in her was shaken. Perhaps her mate had been warning her to beware of me. She did drop the mat of horsehair—what did such a dainty Quaker lady as she want of horsehair?—but she kept tight hold of one of the feathers, although it was almost as big as she was; and flew back quickly to the nest with it.
This performance proved one point. She would not take everything that was brought to her. She preferred to hunt for her own materials rather than use what she did not like. Now the question was, what did she like?
My next experiment was with some lamp wick to which I had tied bits of cotton. The titmouse took the cotton and would have taken the wicking, I think, if it had not been fastened in too tight for her. After that I tried tying bits of cotton to strings, and letting them dangle before the mouth of the nest. Though I moved up to within twenty feet of the nest, she paid no attention to me but hurried in. She liked the cotton so well she stopped in her hallway, reached up to pull at the white bundles, and tweaked and tugged till, finally, she backed triumphantly down the hole with one.
Her mate, less familiar with my experiments, started to go to the nest after her, but the sight of the cotton scared him so he fled ignominiously back into the treetop. He stayed there singing till she came out, when he flew up to her with a dainty he had discovered—at least the two put their bills together; perhaps it was just a caress, for they were a tender, gentle little pair.
Having proved that my bird liked feathers and cotton, I wanted to see what she thought of straws. Apparently she did not think much of them. She looked very much dashed when she came home and found the yellow sticks protruding from the nest hole. She hesitated, turned her head over, flew to a twig on one side of the oak and then back to one on the other side. Finally she mustered courage, and with her crest flattened as if she did not like it, darted down into the hole. When she flew out, however, she went right to her mate, and forgetting all her troubles at sight of him, fluttered her wings and lisped like a young bird as she put up her bill to have him feed her.
Perhaps it was unkind to bother the poor bird any more, but I meant her no harm and the fever for experiment possessed my blood. I tied some of the straws to a piece of wicking and baited it with feathers, thinking that perhaps she would take the straws for the sake of the feathers and wicking. I also stuffed the hole with horsehair. She did pull at the feather end of the line; I saw the straw jerk, and, when she had left, found a round hole the brave little bird had made right through the middle of the mat of horsehair I had stopped the nest with.
Straws and horsehair the titmouse evidently classed together. They were not on her list of building materials. On reflection she decided that the horsehair would make a good hall carpet, so left it in the vestibule, though she would have none of it down in her nest; but she calmly threw my straws down on the ground at the foot of the oak.
I don't know what experiments I might have been tempted to try next had I not suddenly found myself dismissed—the house was complete. My pretty Quaker lady sat in the shade of the oak leaves with crest raised and the flickering sunlight flecking her gray breast. She pecked softly at one of the white feathers that blew up against her as she listened to the song of her mate; and then flew away to him without once going to the nest. Evidently her work was done, and she was waiting till it should be time to begin brooding.
Ten days later I saw her mate come with his bill full of worms and lean down by the hole to call her. She answered with a sweet pleading twitter, and reached up to be fed. When he had gone, perhaps she thought she would like a second bite. At any rate, she hopped out in the doorway and flew off to another tree, calling out tsché-de-de so sweetly he would surely have come back to her had he been within hearing.
A few days later I saw him feed her at the nest five or six times in half an hour. He would come to the next oak, light and call to her, when she would answer from inside the tree trunk and he would go to her. I was near enough to see her pretty gray head and black eyes coming up out of the crack in the oak. Sometimes when he had fed her he would call out and she would answer as if saying good-by from down in the nest. One morning I found the devoted little mate bringing her breakfast to her at half past six.
Nearly a month later they were feeding their young. The winsome mother bird, who had looked so tired and nest-worn the last time I saw her, was now as plump and happy as her spouse. When I thought the pair were away, I went to try to get sight of the nestlings down the hole. The old birds appeared as soon as I set foot by the oak and took upon themselves to scold me. They chattered softly in a way they had never done before. They quickly got used to me again, however, and fed the little ones without hesitation right before me, knowing full well that a person who had helped them build their nest would never harm their little brood; and it was a disappointment when I had to go away and leave the winning family.
XVI.
The little German girl with the scarlet pinafore was a near neighbor, living at the head of the valley in a cottage surrounded by great live-oaks. These trees were alive with birds. Bush-tits flew back and forth, busily hanging their gray pockets among the leafy folds of the drooping branches; blue jays flew through, squawking on their way to the brush; goldfinches, building in the orchard, lisped sweetly as they rested in the oaks; and a handsome oriole who was building in the grove flew overhead so slowly he seemed to be retarded by the fullness of his own sweet song. But I had become so fond of the gentle gray titmouse whose nest I had helped to build, that of all the bird songs in the trees, its cheery tu-whit', tu-whit', tu-whit' was most enticing to me. How delightful it would be to watch another pair of the winning workers! I did see one of the birds enter a hollow branch, one day, and not long after saw it go down a hole in an oak trunk; but never saw it afterwards in either place. Back and forth I followed that elusive voice, hoping to discover the nest, but I suspect the bird was only prospecting, and had not even begun to work.
The little German Gretchen became interested in the search for the titmouse's nest, and told me that a gray bird had built in an oak in front of her house. I rode right over to see it, but found the gray bird a female Mexican bluebird, whose brilliant ultramarine mate sat on the fence of the vegetable garden in plain sight. The children kept better watch of the nest after that, and a few days later, when in my attic study, I heard the tramp of a horse, and, looking out, found my little friend under the window, come to tell me that the eggs had hatched. When her older sister came for the washing I asked her if she had seen the old birds go to the nest, and she said, "Yes; one was blue and the other gray."
When I rode up again, the young had grown so that from the saddle I could look down the hole and see their big mouths and bristling pin-feathers. The mother bird was about the tree, and her soft dull coloring toned in well with the gray bark. The bluebirds had a double front door, and went in one side to come out the other. I saw both of them feed the young, the male flying into the hole straight from the fence post.
It seemed such hard work finding worms out in the hot sun that I wondered if birds' eyes ever ached from the intentness of their search, and if there were near-sighted birds. Perhaps the intervals of feeding depend on the worm supply rather than the dietary principles of the parents.
Gretchen's mother was bending over her wash-tubs out under the oaks, and I called her attention to the pretty birds brooding in her door-yard, telling her that they were good friends of hers, eating up the worms that destroyed her flowers and vegetables. "So?" she asked, but seemed ready to let the subject drop there, and hurried back to her work. A poor widow with a large family of children and a ranch to look after can find little time, even in beautiful California, to enjoy what Nature places in her door-yard.
Three weeks later Gretchen came riding down to tell me that there were eggs in the tree again. The bluebird bid fair to be as hardworked as the widow, at that rate, I thought, when I went up to look at them. The children showed me the nest of a goldfinch, near the ground, in one of the little orange-trees in front of the house. They also pointed out linnets' nests in the vines by the door, and the oldest child said eagerly, "When we came home from school there was a hummingbird in the window, and we caught it," adding, "I think it must have been a father hummingbird." "Why?" I asked, "was it pretty?" "Yes, it just shined," she exclaimed enthusiastically.
When the family were at home, their puppy would bark at us furiously, and follow us about suspiciously, but when he had been left on the ranch alone he was glad of our society. Then when I watched the bluebirds, he came and curled down by my side, becoming so friendly that he actually grew jealous of Billy, and turned to have me caress him each time that the little horse walked up to have the flies brushed off his nose, or having pulled up a bunch of grass by the roots, brought it for me to hold so that he could eat it without getting the dirt in his mouth.
Going home one day, Billy came upon a gopher snake. Now Canello had been brought up in a rattlesnake country, and was always on his guard, but Billy was 'raised' in the mountains, where snakes are scarce, and did not seem to know what they were. He had given me a good deal of anxiety by this indifference—he had stepped over a big one once without seeing any need for haste—and I had been expecting that he would get bitten. Here, then, was my chance to give him a scare. The gopher snake was harmless; perhaps, if I could get him so close to it that he would see it wriggle away from under his feet, he might be less indifferent to rattlers.
The gopher snake was three or four feet long, and lay as straight as a stick across our path. As I urged Billy up beside it, he actually stepped on the tip of its tail. The poor snake writhed a little, but gave no other sign of pain; its rôle was to remain a stick. And Billy certainly acted as if it were. I threw the reins on his neck, thinking that if he put his head down to graze he might make a discovery. Then a horrid thought came to me. The people said the rattlers sometimes lost their rattles. In a general way, rattlers and gopher snakes look alike; what if this were a rattlesnake, and at my bidding my little horse should be struck! But no. There was no mistaking the long tapering body of the gopher, and it lacked the wide flat head of the rattler. But I might have spared myself my fears. Billy would not even put his head down, and when I tried to force him upon the snake he quietly turned aside. To make the snake move, I threw a stick at it, but it was as obstinate as Billy himself. Then I slipped to the ground, and picking up a long pole gave it a gingerly little poke. Still motionless! I tried another plan, taking Billy away a few yards. Then at last the snake slowly pulled itself along. But the moment we came back it turned into a stick again, and Billy relapsed into indifference. It was no use. I could do nothing with either of them. I would see the snake go off, anyway, I thought, so withdrew and waited till it felt reassured, when it started. Its silken skin shone as it wormed silently through the grass and disappeared down a hole without a sound, and I reflected that it might also come up without a sound, very likely beside me as I sat on the dead leaves!
XVII.
The second time I went to California the little whitewashed adobe opposite my ranch was still standing, but an acacia-tree had grown over the well where the black phœbe had nested, and the shaft was so overrun with bushes and vines that it was hard to find a trace of it. Drawn by pleasant memories, I rode in one morning, sure of finding something interesting about the old place.
I had not waited long before the chip of a young bird came from the vines over the well. It proved a callow nestling, with no tail, and little to mark its parentage. Presently a brown long-tailed wren-tit came with food in its bill and peered down through the leaves at it; and then a California towhee came and sat around till satisfied as to whose child was crying. A moment later a lazuli bunting flew over with food in her bill, and I at once bethought me of the lazuli-like markings, the brownish wing-bars and the sharp cry of "quit," which none but a lazuli could give. That surely was my bird.
But if so, what did this interest on the part of the wren-tit mean? She hopped about the nestling with tail up and crest raised, chattering to it in low mysterious tones; and when I suspected her of giving her worm to it, suddenly turned her head and looked away with a suspiciously non-committal air. The lazuli, however, sat indifferently on a branch and plumed her feathers, though when she did fly down toward the young one, the wren-tit gave way. But even then the lazuli did not feed the small bird. When she had gone, the wren-tit came back. She spoke low to the nestling, and drew it down into the thick part of the tangle where I could not see them, though there was a hint of tiny quivering wings, and I was morally certain that the old bird was feeding it, especially when she flew up in sight with the smart air of having outwitted me.
I was getting more and more bewildered. What did it all mean? Were there two families of young down in the tangle? If not, why were two old birds feeding one little one, and to which mother did the child belong? The wisdom of Solomon was needed to solve the riddle.
The wren-tit simply devoted herself to the little bird, going and coming for it constantly; while the lazuli, ordinarily the most nervous noisy bird when her young are disturbed, sat around silently, or flew away without remark. I became so impressed by the wren-tit side of the case that I quite forgot the lazuli note and markings.
Just as I thought I had come to a decision in the case, a male lazuli flew in, lighting atilt of an acacia stalk opposite the wren-tit. But when he saw me he craned his neck and flew off in a hurry—no father, surely, scared away at the first glimpse of me! However, I was not clear in my mind, and sat down to puzzle the matter out.
At this juncture Madame Lazuli came with food; the young bird turned toward her for it, and behold! she took to her wings with all she had brought. I had hardly time to congratulate myself on this new piece of testimony, when back came the lazuli with her bill full!
In my perplexity I moved so near the little one that, without meaning to, I forced the old birds to show their true colors. The situation was too dangerous to admit of further subterfuge. Both Madame Lazuli and her handsome blue mate—whom I discovered at a safe distance up on a high branch out of reach—flew down and dashed about, twitching their tails from side to side as they cried "quit," in nervous tones; altogether acting so much like anxious parents that I had to relinquish my theory that the little bird belonged to the wren-tit. Like the mother whom Solomon judged, she forgot all else when real danger threatened the child. Having come to my decision from circumstantial evidence, I remembered with a start that I had known it all the time, from the wing-bars and the call note! Nevertheless, my riddle was only half solved, for how about the wren-tit?
A young bird called from the sycamore at the corner of the adobe, and when both old birds flew over to it, I thought I'd better follow. I got there just in time to see a little bird light in the elbow of a limb, totter as if going to fall, and save itself by snuggling up in the elbow, where it sat in the sun looking very cozy and comfortable—winning little tot. The mother lazuli started to come to it, but seeing me flew away to another branch, where, well screened, she stretched up on her toes to look at me over the top of a big sycamore leaf. Though the fledgling called, the mother left without going to it.
The wren-tit had stayed behind at the well; but while the lazuli was gone, who should come flying in but the foster mother! I was astonished. Moreover, the instant the youngster set eyes on her, it started up and flew to her—actually flew into her in its hurry. She admonished it gently, in a soft chattering voice, for she could not scold it.
When the lazuli came back with food, it was only to see her little bird flying off to the other side of the tree after the wren-tit! I thought she seemed bewildered, but she followed in their wake—we all followed. Here came a closer test. Both lazuli and wren-tit stood before the small bird. Which would it go to? The lazuli kept silent, but the wren-tit called softly and the little one raised its wings and flew toward her, leaving its mother behind.
I watched and waited, but the wren-tit did not give over her kind offices, and the last I saw of the birds, on riding away, the three were flying in procession across the brush, the lazuli following its mother and the wren-tit bringing up the rear.
I went home very much puzzled. Was the wren-tit a lonely mother bird who had lost her own little ones, or was she merely an old maid with a warm spot in her heart for other peoples' little folks?
XVIII.
We may say that we care naught for the world and its ways, but most of us are more or less tricked by the high-sounding titles of the mighty. Even plain-thinking observers come under the same curse of Adam, and, like the snobs who turn scornfully from Mr. Jones to hang upon the words of Lord Higginbottom, will pass by a plain brown chippie to study with enthusiasm the ways of a phainopepla! Sometimes, however, in ornithology as in the world, a name does cover more than its letters, and we are duped into making some interesting discoveries as well as learning some of the important lessons in life. In the case of the phainopepla, no hopes that could be raised by his cognomen would equal the rare pleasure afforded by a study of his unusual ways.
On my first visit to Twin Oaks I caught but brief glimpses of this distinguished bird. Sometimes for a moment he lit on a bare limb and I had a chance to admire his high black crest and glossy blue-black coat, which with one more touch of color would become iridescent. He was so slenderly formed, and his shining coat was so smooth and trim, he made me think of a bird of glass perched on a tree. But while I gazed at him he would launch into the air and wing his way high over the valley to the hillsides beyond, leaving me to marvel at the white disks on his wings, hidden when perching, but in air making him suggest a black ship with white sails.
His appearance was so elegant and his ways so unusual that I went back East regretting I had not given more time to a bird who was so individual, and resolved that if I ever returned to California my first pleasure should be to study him. When the time finally came, an ornithologist friend who knew my plans wrote, exclaiming, "Do study the phainopeplas!" and added that she felt like making a journey to California to see that one bird.
From the middle of March till the middle of May I watched and waited for the phainopeplas. There had been only a few of the birds before, and I began to fear they had left the valley. When despairing of them, suddenly one day I saw a black speck cross over to the hills. I wanted to drop my work and follow, but went on with my rounds, and one bright morning on my way home after a discouraging hunt for nests, a pair of phainopeplas flew up right before my eyes almost within sight of the house. I dropped down behind a bush, and in a moment more the birds flew to a little oak by the road—a tree I had been sitting under that very morning! The female seated herself on top of the oak, watching me with raised crest, while her mate disappeared in a dark mat of leaves, probably mistletoe, where he stayed so long that the possibility of a nest waxed to a probability, and I made a rapid but ecstatic ascent to the observer's seventh heaven. A phainopepla's nest right on my own doorsill! I could hardly restrain my impatience, and was tempted to shoo the birds away so I could go to the nest; when suddenly they opened their wings and, crossing the valley, disappeared up a side canyon! Pulling myself together and reflecting that I might have known better than to imagine there would be a nest so near home, I took up my camp-stool and trudged back to the house.
After that came a number of tantalizing hints. When watching the third gnatcatcher's nest I had seen a pair of phainopeplas flying suggestively back and forth from the brush to the various oaks, and thought the handsome lover fed his mate as his relative the gentle high-bred waxwing does. Surely the wooing of these beautiful birds should be carried on with no less fine feeling, courtesy, and tenderness; and so it seems to be. The black knight flew low over my head slowly, as if inspecting me, and then came again with his lady, as if having said, "Dear one, I would consult you upon this impending danger."
After that, something really delightful came about. Day by day, on riding back to our ranch-house, I found phainopeplas there eating the berries of the pepper-trees in our front yard. Before long the birds began coming early in the morning; their voices were the first sounds we heard on awakening and almost the last at night, and soon we realized the delightful fact that our trees had become the feeding ground for all the phainopeplas of the valley. Altogether there were five or six pairs. It was a pretty sight to see the black satiny birds perched on one of the delicate sprays of the willowy pepper-trees, hanging over the grape-like clusters, to pluck the small pink berries. The birds soon grew very friendly, and, though they gave a cry of warning when the cats appeared, became so tame they would answer my calls and let me watch them from the piazza steps, not a rod away.
When they first began to linger about the house we thought they were building near, and when one flew into an oak across the road, almost gave me palpitation of the heart by the suggestion. But no nest was there, and when the bird flew away it rose obliquely into the air perhaps a hundred feet, and then flew on evenly straight across to the small oaks on the farther side of a patch of brush that remained in the centre of the valley, known to the ranchmen as the 'Island.' The flight looked so premeditated that the first thing the next morning, although the phainopeplas were at the peppers, I rode on ahead to wait for them at their nest. We had not been there long before hearing the familiar warning call. Turning Billy in the direction of the sound, I threw his reins on his neck to induce him to graze along the way and give our presence a more casual air, while I looked up indifferently as if to survey the landscape. To my delight the phainopepla did not seem greatly alarmed, and, throwing off the assumed indifference that always makes an observer feel like a wretched hypocrite, I called and whistled to him as I had done at the house, to let him know that it was a familiar friend and he had nothing to fear. The beautiful bird started toward me, but on second thought retreated. I turned my back, but, to my chagrin, after giving a few low warning calls, my bird vanished. Alas, for the generations of murderers that have made birds distrust their best friends—that make honest observers tremble for what may befall the birds if they put trust in but one of the human species!
It was plain that if I would get a study of these rare birds I must make a business of it. Slipping from the saddle, I sat down behind a bush and waited. When the bird came back and found the place apparently deserted, to my relief he seated himself on a twig and sang away as if nothing had disturbed his serenity of spirit. But presently the warning call sounded again. This time it was for a schoolgirl who had staked out her horse on the edge of the island and was crossing over to the schoolhouse. A few moments later the bell rang out so loudly that Billy stepped around his oak with animation, but the phainopeplas were used to it and showed no uneasiness.
Before long a flash of white announced a second bird, and then, after a long interval in which nothing happened, the male pitched into a bush with beak bristling with building material! My delight knew no bounds. Instead of nesting in the top of an oak in a remote canyon, as I had been assured the shy birds would do, here they were building in a low oak not more than an eighth of a mile from the house, and in plain sight. Moreover, they were birds who knew me at home, and so would really be much less afraid than strangers, whatever airs they assumed. In the photograph, the bare twigs of the perch tree show above the line of the horizon; the nest tree is the low oak beside it on the right. One thing puzzled me from the outset. While the male worked on the nest, the female sat on the outside circle of brush as if having nothing to do, in spite of the fact that her gray dress toned in so well with the brush that she was quite inconspicuous, while his shining black coat made him a clear mark from a distance. What did it mean? I invented all sorts of fancies to account for it. Had she been to the pepper-trees so much less than he that she was over-troubled by my presence, and therefore the gallant black knight who sang to her so sweetly and was so tender of her, seeing her fears, took the work upon himself? Perchance he had said, "If you are timid, my love, I will build for you while she is by, for I would not have you come near if it would disquiet you."
In any event, he built away quite unconcernedly not three rods from where I sat on the ground staring at him. He would fly to the earth for material, but return to the nest from above, pitching down to it as if having nothing to hide. Once, when resting, he perched on the tree, and I talked to him quite freely. That noon the phainopeplas were at the house before me, and I went out to talk to them while they lunched to let them know it was only I who had visited their nest, so they would have new confidence on the morrow.
But on the morrow they flew to another part of the island, and when we followed, although I hitched Billy farther away from the nest tree and sat quietly behind a brush screen, they did not come back. A brown chippie plumed his feathers unrebuked in their oak, making the place seem more deserted than before. A lizard ran out from the grape cuttings at my feet, and a little black and white mephitis cantered along over the ground with his back arched and his head down. He nosed around under the bushes, showing the white V on his back, exactly like that of our eastern species. As I rode home, five turkey buzzards were flying low over the edge of the island, and one vulture rose from a meal of one of the little black and white animal's relatives, but I saw nothing more of my birds that day.
The next day the phainopeplas came again to the pepper-trees and ate their fill while I sat on the steps watching. The male was quite unconcerned, but when his mate flew near me, he called out sharply; he could risk his own life, but not that of his love. Again the pair flew back to the high oaks on the far side of the island. All my hopes of the first low inaccessible nest vanished. I had driven the birds away. My intrusiveness had made me lose the best chance of the whole nesting season. But I would try to follow them. It did not seem necessary to take Billy. There were only a few trees on that side of the island, and it would be a simple matter to locate the birds. I would walk over, find in which tree they were building, and spend the morning with them. I went. Each oak was encircled by a thick wall of brush, over which it was almost impossible to see more than a fraction of the tree, and the high oak tops were impenetrable to eye and glass. After chasing phantoms all the afternoon I went home with renewed respect for Billy as an adjunct to field work. In order to locate anything in chaparral, one must be high enough to overlook the mass.
That afternoon I saw a pair of phainopeplas fly up a canyon on the east, and another pair fly up another on the west. If I were to know anything of these birds, I must not be balked by faulty observing; I must at least do intelligent work. Riding in from the back and tying Billy out of sight away from the old nest, I swung myself up into a crotch of a low oak from which I could overlook the whole island. The phainopeplas soon flew in, but to the opposite side, and I was condemning myself for having driven them away when, to my amazement, the male flew over and shot down into the little oak where he had been building before! My self-reproach took a different form—I had not been patient enough. Surely if I could wait an hour for an ordinary hummingbird, I could wait a morning for an absent phainopepla.
From the nest the beautiful bird flew to the bare oak top behind it which he used for a perch, and—alas! gave his warning call. I was discovered. He dashed his tail, turned his head to look at me first from one side and then from the other, and then flew to the top of the highest tree in sight to verify his observations. Whether he recognized the object as his pepper-tree acquaintance, I do not know; but to my great relief he went back to his work. By this time the little tree which had seemed such a comfortable chair had undergone a change—I felt as if stretched upon the gridiron of St. Anthony. Climbing down stiffly, I kneeled behind the brush and practiced focusing my glass on the nest so that it would not catch the light and frighten the bird, when out he flew from the nest and sat down facing me in broad daylight! He did not say a word, but looked around abstractedly, as if hunting for material.
If he were so indifferent, perhaps it would be safe to creep nearer. Following the paths trodden by the bare feet of the school children, and spying and skulking, I crept into a good hiding-place about a rod from the nest. The ground was covered with dead leaves, and I saw a suggestive round hole—a very large rattlesnake had been killed a few rods away the week before. I covered the hole with my cloak and then sat down on the lid—nothing could come up while I was there, at all events.
The phainopepla worked busily for some time, flying rapidly back and forth with material. Then came the warning cry. I drew in my note-book from the sun so that it should not catch his eye, and waited. The hot air grew hotter, beating down on my head. A big lizard wriggled over the leaves, and I thought of my rattlesnake. Then Billy sneezed in a forced way, as though to remind me not to go off without him. Growing restless, I moved the bushes a little—they were so stiff they made a very good chair-back if one got into the right position—when suddenly, looking up I saw my phainopepla friend vault into the air from a bush behind me, where, apparently, he had been sitting taking notes of his own! What observers birds are, to be sure! The best of us have much to learn from them.
But though the phainopepla was most watchful, he was open to conviction, and he and his mate at last concluded that I meant them no harm. Afterwards, when I moved, they both came and looked at me, but went about their business quite unmindful of me.
As I had seen from the outset, the male did almost all the building. When his spouse came in sight he burst out into a tender joyous love song. She went to the nest now and again, but generally when she came it was to sun herself on the bare perch tree, where she dressed her plumes or merely sat with crest raised and her soft gray feathers fluffed about her feet, while waiting for her mate to get leisure to take a run with her.
When he had finished his stint and she was not about, he would take his turn on the perch tree, his handsome glossy black coat shining in the sun. If an unwitting neighbor lit on his tree he would flatten his crest and dash down indignantly, but for the most part he perched quietly except to make short sallies into the air for insects, sometimes singing as he went; or he just warbled to himself contentedly, what sounded like the chattering run of a swallow on the wing. One day we had quite a conversation. His simplest call note was like the call of a young robin, and while I answered him he gave his note seventeen times in one minute, and eleven times in the next half minute.
The birds had a great variety of calls and songs, most of which were vivacious and cheering and seemed attuned to the warmth and brightness of the California sunshine. The quality of the love song was rich and flute-like.
The male phainopepla seemed to enjoy life in general and his work in particular. He frequently sang to himself when going for material; and once, apparently, when on the nest. When he was building I could see his black head move about between the leaves. Like the gnatcatchers, he used only fine bits of material, but he did not drill them in as they did. He merely laid them in, or at most wove them in gently. Now and then, as the black head moved in front, the black tail would tilt up behind at the back of the nest as if the bird were moulding; but there was comparatively little of that. When completed, the nest was a soft felty structure.
When working, the male would fly back and forth from the ground to the nest, carrying his bits of plant stem, oak blossom, and other fine stuff. He worked so rapidly that it kept me busy recording his visits. He once went to the nest four times in four minutes; at another time, seventeen times in a little over an hour. Sometimes he stayed only half a minute; when he stayed three minutes, it was so unusual that I recorded it. He worked spasmodically, however. One day he came seventeen times in one hour, but during the next half hour came only five times. The birds seemed to divide their mornings into quite regular periods. When I awoke at half past five I would hear them at the pepper-trees breakfasting; and some of them were generally there as late as eight o'clock. From eight to ten they worked with a will, though the visits usually fell off after half past nine. It was when working in this more deliberate way that the male would go to his perch on an adjoining tree and preen himself, catch flies, or sing between his visits. Once he sat on the limb in front of the nest for nearly ten minutes. By ten o'clock I found that I might as well go to watch other birds, as little would be going on with the phainopeplas; and they often flew off for a lunch of peppers.
Just as the island nest was about done—it was destroyed! I found it on the ground under the tree. For a time I felt as if no nests could come to anything; the number that had been destroyed during the season was disheartening. It seemed as though I no sooner got interested in a little family than its home was broken up. Sometimes I wondered how a bird ever had courage to start a nest.
But though it was hard to reconcile myself to the destruction of the phainopeplas' nest, I found others later. Altogether, I saw three pairs of birds building, and in each case the male was doing most of the work. Two of the nests I watched closely, watch and note-book in hand, in order to determine the exact proportion of work done by each bird. One nest was watched two hours and a half, during a period of five days, in which time the male went to the nest twenty-seven times, the female, only three. The other nest was watched seven hours and thirty-five minutes, during a period of ten days, in which time the male was at the nest fifty-seven times; the female, only eight. Taking the total for the two nests: in ten hours and five minutes the male went to the nest eighty-four times; the female, eleven. That is to say, the females made only thirteen per cent of the visits. In reality, although they went to the nest eleven times, the ratio of work might safely be reduced still further; for in watching them I was convinced that, as a rule, they came to the nest, not to build, but to inspect the building done by their mates. Indeed, at one nest, I saw nothing to make me suspect that the female did any of the work. Her coming was usually welcomed by a joyous song, but once the evidence seemed to prove that she was driven away; perhaps she was too free with her criticisms! In another case the work was sadly interrupted by the presence of the visitor, for while she sat in the nest her excited mate flew back and forth as if he had quite forgotten the business in hand. Perhaps he was nervous, and wanted to make sure what she was doing in the new house!
In several instances I found that while the males were at work building, the females went off by themselves. Once I saw Madame Phainopepla bring her friend home with her. No sooner had the visitor lit than—shocking to relate—the lord of the house left his work and drove her off with bill and claw—a polite way to treat his lady's friends, surely! On one occasion, when I looked up I saw a procession passing overhead—two females followed by a male. The male flew hesitatingly, as if troubled by his conscience, and then, deciding that if the nest was ever going to be built he had better keep at it, turned around and came back to work. One day when I rode over to the chaparral island, I found two of the males sitting around in the brush. They played tag until tired, and then perched on a branch in the sun, side by side, evidently enjoying themselves like light-hearted, care-free bachelors. Their mates were not in sight. But suddenly I glanced up and saw two females flying in to the island high overhead, as if coming from a distance. Instantly the indifferent holiday air of their mates vanished. They gave their low warning calls, for I was on the ground and they must not show me their nests. In answer to the warning the females wavered, and then, when their mates joined them, all four flew away together.
At other times when I rode in the males would make large circles, seventy-five feet above me, as if to get a clear understanding of the impending danger. This was when small nest hunters were about, and the birds were some whose nests I did not find, and who had no opportunity to become convinced of my good intentions.
After finding that the males did most of the building, I was anxious to see how it would be when the brooding began. Three of my nests were broken up beforehand, however, and the fourth was despoiled after I had watched the birds on the nest one day. Nevertheless, the evidence of that day was most interesting as far as it went. It proved that while the female lacked the architect's instinct, she was not without the maternal instinct. There were two eggs in the nest, and in the one hour that I watched, each bird brooded the eggs six times. Before this, the female had been to the nest so much less than the male that now she was much shyer; but although Billy frightened her by tramping down the brush near by, it was she who first overcame her fears and went to cover the eggs.