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UNDER APRIL CLOUDS “GOOD-MORNING.” “Ah,
good-morning.
How are you?” I was on
what I
suppose is habitually the most crowded sidewalk in Boston, where men in
haste
are always to be seen betaking themselves to the street as the only
means of
making headway. A hand was laid on my shoulder. A business man, one of
the
busiest, I should think he must be, had come up behind me. He was
looking
happy. Yes, he said, he was very well. “And yesterday,” he continued,
“I had a
great pleasure. I saw my first fox-colored sparrow, and heard him
sing.” No wonder
his face
shone. His condition was enviable. The fox sparrow is a noble bird,
with a most
musical voice, the prince of all sparrows. To hear him for the first
time — if
one does hear him — is a real event. A man might well walk a crowded
city
sidewalk the next day and smile to himself at the memory of such high
fortune.
After all,
happiness is a good thing. Not so desirable, perhaps, as a great
office, or a
mint of money, but a pretty good thing, nevertheless. It is
encouraging, in
these days of far-sought pleasures and prodigal expense, to see men get
it at a
low rate and on innocent terms. For
myself, I think
I have never known fox sparrows more plentiful than for the past week.
From our
human point of view their present migration has been eminently
favorable; from
the birds' point of view it has probably been in the highest degree
unfavorable,
the prolonged spell of cloudy and rainy weather having made night
flights difficult,
not to say impossible. The travelers have been obliged to stay where
the storm
had caught them, and we, at this intermediate station, have profited by
their
misfortune. On the 7th
I stood
in the midst of as fine a flock as a man could wish to see. A thick
cloud
enveloped us; we might have been on a mountain-top; but for the minute
it had
ceased raining, and the birds were in a lively mood. Sometimes as many
as five
or six were singing together, while a chorus of snowbirds trilled the
prettiest
of accompaniments; a concert worthy of Easter or any other festival. The
weather has
been of a kind to keep night-traveling migrants here, I say; which is
as much
as to say that it has been of a sort to prevent other such birds from
arriving.
There have been no bright nights, I think, since April came in. So it
happens,
according to my theory (which may be as sound or as unsound as the
reader
pleases), that although it is now the 10th of the month, there has
been, for
my eye, no sign of chipper, field sparrow, or vesper sparrow. How
should there
be? How should such creatures find their way, with the fog and the
rain
blinding them night after night? No doubt they are impatient to be at
home again
in the old dooryards, the old savin-dotted pastures, and the old
hay-fields. By
and by the clouds will vanish, and they will hasten northward in
crowds. The
night air will be full of them, and the next day all outdoor,
bird-loving
people will be in clover. Unfavorable
as the
weather is, however, and against all probabilities, one cannot quite
forego
seasonable expectations. I pass the border of a grass field. A sparrow
sings in
the distance, and I stop to listen. Could that have been a vesper
sparrow? The
song comes again. No; it begins a little in the vesper's manner; the
opening
measure is unusually smooth and unemphatic; but the bird is only a song
sparrow. It is no shrewder than Peter. Its speech bewrayeth it. One
kingfisher I
have seen, shooting through the misty air far aloft, his long wings
making him
look at that height like some seabird or wader. I remember when the
sight — not
uncommon in spring — was to me an insoluble mystery. As for calling the
bird a
kingfisher, such a thought never occurred to me. I knew the kingfisher
well
enough, or imagined that I did, but not at that altitude and flying in
that
strong, purposeful manner. Yet even at such times he commonly sounds
his
rattle before him, as if he wished his identity and his whereabouts to
be
known. I have
seen also a
single marsh hawk. That was on the 9th, and the circumstances of the
case were
ludicrous. I had stopped to look down from a wooded hilltop into a
swampy pool,
where ducks sometimes alight, when I saw a white object moving rapidly
along
the farther side of the swamp, now visible, now hidden behind a veil of
trees
and shrubbery. A road runs along that border of the swamp, and I took
this moving
white object for a bundle which a boy was carrying upon a bicycle
(making
pretty quick time), till suddenly I perceived that it was only a marsh
hawk's
rump! A redwing had given chase to the hawk — mostly for sport, I
imagine, or
just to keep his hand in; for I do not suppose he could have had any
real
grudge to settle. Probably this is the first case on record in which a
hawk was
ever mistaken for a wheelman. Two
evenings ago I
made a solitary excursion to an extensive swamp and meadow, hoping to
witness,
or at least to hear, the aerial performance of the snipe. The air was
full of a
Scotch mist, and the sky cloudy. If the birds were there, and in a
performing
mood, they would be likely to get under way in good season. I waded
across the
meadow out of the sight of houses, and, having found what seemed to be
a
promising position, I took it and held it for perhaps an hour. But I
heard none
of those strange, ghostly, swishing noises that I was listening for.
Perhaps
the birds had not yet arrived. Perhaps this was not a snipe meadow. For a time
robins
and song sparrows made music more or less remote, and an unseen fox
sparrow,
nearer at hand, amused me with excellent imitations of the brown
thrasher's
smacking kiss. Then, as it grew really dark, I relinquished the hunt
and
started homeward. And then the real music began; for as I approached
the
highway I heard the whistle of a woodcock, and presently discovered
that, for
the first time in my life, I was walking through what might be called a
veritable woodcock concert. Once three birds were vocal together; one
was
“bleating” on the right, another on the left, while a third was at the
very
height of his ecstasy overhead. For a mile or more I walked under a
shower of
this incomparable, indescribable music. It dropped into my ears like
rain from
heaven. One bird
was
calling just over the roadside wall. I stole nearer and nearer, taking
a few
cautious steps after each bleat, till finally I could hear the water
dropping
into the hogshead. I wonder how many readers will know what I mean by
that.
After each call, as a kind of pendant to it, there comes, if you are
very, very
close, a curious small sound, exactly as if a drop of water (the
comparison is
not mine) had fallen into a hogshead already half full. I had not heard
it for
years. In fact, I had forgotten it, and heard it now for the first few
times
without recollecting what it was. Then the
bird rose
— always invisible, of course, for by this time there was no thought of
seeing
anything — and went skyward in broad circles, till he was at the top of
his
flight, and when he descended he came to earth on the other side of the
road, a
good distance away. He had seen me, I suppose, with those big
bull's-eyes of
his, which do so much to heighten the oddity of his personal
appearance. He was the
last of
his kind. For the rest of my walk I heard no music except the sweet
whistling
of hylas here and there, and once, in a woodland pool, the grating
chorus of a
set of wood frogs. Butterflies
are
waiting for sunshine — like the rest of us; I have not seen so much as
an
Antiopa; and the only wild flowers I have yet picked are the pretty red
blossoms (pistillate blossoms) of the hazel; tiny things, floral
egrets, if you
please to call them so, of a lively and beautiful color. Sunshine or no
sunshine, they were in bloom for Easter. |