Bird studies with a camera

BIRD PHOTOGRAPHY BEGINS AT HOME

The influence exerted by the camera in creating new values for the bird student is perhaps nowhere more evident than in the immediate vicinity of one’s home. Even the view from our windows possesses fresh significance as we speculate on the probability of securing a desirable picture from this or that point of vantage, while birds to which long familiarity has partially dimmed our vision now become possible subjects for our camera, and we find ourselves observing their movements with an alertness before unknown.

In my own case, I have learned almost to tolerate the House Sparrows, with which I have been at war as long as memory serves me, for the pleasure found in attempting to outwit these shrewd, independent, impudent rats among birds; and, on closer acquaintance, they prove such interesting subjects for study that, if their vocal ability equaled their intelligence, they might be as generally liked as they are hated. So much for the magic of a sweet voice. As it is, they possess a greater variety of notes than they are generally credited with, and their conversational powers undoubtedly exceed those of many accomplished singers. In addition to the insistent, reiterated chissick, chissick, which constitutes the song of the male, one soon learns to recognize calls of warning, alarm, flight, battle, and the soft whistle which the bird utters when it approaches its nest—the only musical note in its vocabulary.

Quick to notice the slightest deviation from normal conditions, House Sparrows are difficult birds to photograph. They seem to be constantly on the watch for some sign of danger, and an unusual arrangement of blind or shade at once arouses their suspicions. After a heavy fall of snow, however, hunger dulls the edge of their fears, and by scattering food near a suitable window the birds may be decoyed within photographing distance.²⁰ It will be found necessary, even then, to conceal the camera, which they evidently distinguish from familiar pieces of furniture and regard with alarm.

This, too, is the best time to secure pictures of Juncos,²¹ Chickadees, Nuthatches, Downy Woodpeckers, Blue Jays, and less common winter birds. The four last named are rarely or never seen about my home in winter. Doubtless the abundant and surrounding woodlands afford them a more congenial haunt, from which they are not to be enticed by suet, bones, or grain; or, more likely still, the custom of putting out food for birds is so unusual in the region about New York city that they have not yet learned to expect it. It is a most pleasing surprise to the resident of this section to observe the numbers and familiarity of winter birds in the environs of Boston, where a feast seems spread for them in nearly every dooryard.

To return to the Sparrow. The bird’s nest also provides a focal point for the camera, but, as elsewhere, the greatest precautions must be taken, and I have succeeded in securing a picture only when some advantageously situated window afforded a natural blind. One of the pictures thus obtained shows a nest in the ornamental part of a gutter, with the female looking from an adjoining opening.²² This gutter seems especially designed to furnish lodgings for Sparrows, and no argument that I have thus far advanced has convinced them that it was not erected for their use. During the early part of their occupancy, a rap on their roof promptly brought them out to perch in the branches of the neighboring trees, where their chattering protest was soon interrupted by a gunshot; but the survivors quickly learned the meaning of the roof tap, and now, without a moment’s pause, they dive downward from their doorway and fly out of range at topmost speed.

More welcome tenants than the House Sparrows are a pair of Screech Owls, who for years have reared their broods in a dovecotelike gable, where they are beyond the reach of nest robbers of all kinds. During the winter they apparently are absent, nor indeed are they seen until June, when, each evening at sundown, one of the pair, probably the male, takes his post at the entrance to its home and gives utterance to the crooning refrain which sometimes follows the so-called tremulous “screech.” But the latter I never hear at this season. In spite of the poor light prevailing at this hour, the bird’s stillness has tempted repeated trials to secure its picture, and the most successful, made with a fourteen-inch lens and an exposure of fifteen seconds, is here shown.²³ Telephotos have thus far been underexposed.

As a means of making the exposure as soon as possible after the Owl appeared, I have on a number of occasions placed my camera in position, focused and otherwise made ready some minutes before he was expected, and I recall with amusement the incredulity of a friend whose surprise at seeing me point my camera skyward without ostensible purpose was in no way lessened when I told him that I had an appointment with an Owl, who was to take his stand shortly in the hole toward which the camera was directed; and fortunately the bird was on time!

From the perch, some forty feet aloft, the grave little creature surveys the scene below with an expression of combined wisdom and thoughtfulness which makes a laugh seem wanton foolishness. At the border of dusk and dark he flies out to feed, often descending to the ground and remaining there for some moments while catching insects. Occasionally he takes his prey from the tree trunks, perhaps a cicada struggling from its shell, and on several occasions I have thought he captured food on the wing. Sometimes the supper hunt leads him to the edge of the croquet lawn, where from the earth or the back of a garden bench he becomes an interested spectator of the last game. When the young appear, later in the month, the evergreens seem alive with Owls, who flit about and utter querulous little calls difficult of description. Toward the end of July, doubtless after the molt is completed, presumably the adults—for never more than two are heard—begin to sing; and this habit of post-nuptial singing seems not to be confined to the Screech Owl, for about this time the deep-toned, resounding notes of the Barred Owl come up from the woods. Throughout August and September the wailing whistle, which is ever welcome for its spirit of wildness, is heard nightly, and as the plaintive notes tremble on the hushed air we invariably say, “Hark, there’s the Owl!”

My experience as bird photographer about home, I must admit, has consisted chiefly in a series of encouraging failures which have borne no tangible results. Let us hope, however, that the few pictures here presented will prove as suggestive to the reader as they are to their maker, who, although he offers such inadequate proof in support of his belief, is far too well convinced of the possibilities of home photography to go afield without saying at least a word in its behalf.