Part 3

The young bird is a worthy subject from the moment it leaves the shell until, as far as flight is concerned, it deserves to be ranked with its elders. When possible, series of pictures should be made showing the rate of growth of the same brood from the period of hatching to the date when the nest is deserted. Circumstances do not, however, often permit of the forming of these ideal series, and we must therefore photograph the young bird as we find him, either before or after^{15} he has made his initial flight, or as he is preparing for it.^{16}

The suggestions made under the head of Birds’ Nests and Eggs will apply in a general way to photographing young in the nest; but even when at rest in other respects, the rapid respiration of nestlings requires a quick exposure to insure sharpness of outline, and, when in the shadow, sufficient illumination can be secured only with the aid of a reflector.

[Illustration: 16. Young Baltimore Orioles and nest.]

_Adult Birds._—It is in photographing birds in the full possession of the powers of maturity that the bird photographer’s skill and patience are put to the most severe tests. It might be said that, from a strictly ornithological point of view, the results obtained do not in many instances justify the time expended. Success, however, in this field, as in many others, is not to be measured by the attainment of a certain end, but often by the experience gained in what, to one having only the ultimate object in view, may seem to have been fruitless effort.

In matching one’s ability as a hunter against the timidity and cunning of a bird, relations are established between the photographer and his subject which of necessity result in their becoming intimately associated.

[Illustration: 17. Wood Thrush on nest.]

Doubtless we shall never know just what birds think of the peculiar antics in which the camera enthusiast sometimes indulges, but certain it is that an attempt to photograph some of the most familiar and presumably best-known birds will open the photographer’s eyes to facts in their life histories of which he was previously in utter ignorance.

As a known and fixed point to which the bird may be expected to return, the nest offers the best opportunity to the bird photographer, and photographs of adult birds on or at their nests are more common than those taken under other conditions.^{17, 18}

[Illustration: 18. Chestnut-sided Warbler on nest.]

Birds vary greatly in their attitude toward a camera which has been erected near their homes; some species paying little attention to it, and, after a short time, coming and going as though it had always been there, while others are suspicious of any object which changes the appearance of their surroundings.

With the latter special precautions are necessary, and unusual care should be taken in working about their nests lest they be made to desert it. The long-focus lens is here of great service, for it enables one to secure a sufficiently large image from a distance of ten or twelve feet. Even then it will often be necessary to conceal or disguise the camera by covering it with the green dark-cloth, vines, and leaves. A rubber tube or thread of requisite length is then attached and the exposure is made from a distance.

A dummy camera, composed of a box or log wrapped in a green cloth and placed on a tripod made from saplings, may sometimes be erected to advantage several days before one expects to attempt to photograph the bird, who in the meantime becomes accustomed to it and quickly returns to the nest after the real camera has been substituted.

The artificial tree trunk would doubtless be of assistance in some kinds of bird-at-the-nest photography, especially when one desired to secure pictures of the old bird feeding its young, and was obliged therefore to make the exposure at just the proper moment. In most instances, however, there is sufficient undergrowth in the immediate vicinity to afford concealment, from which with the aid of a glass one may take note of events.

With the reflecting camera one may stalk birds on foot or with a boat, or “squeak” them into range by kissing the back of the hand vigorously, a sound which, during the nesting season especially, arouses much curiosity or anxiety in the bird’s mind.

The decoys, blinds, batteries, sneak boxes, etc., of the sportsman are also at the disposal of the hunter with a camera, though I must admit that my one outing to photograph bay birds over decoys resulted in an empty bag. It was in the spring, however, when the bay birds surviving had experienced two shooting seasons and were exceedingly wild. In the fall, with birds born the preceding summer, one might be more successful.

Birds may be sometimes brought within range of the camera by baiting them with food, and, after they have learned to expect it, placing the camera in suitable position. This may be most easily done when there is snow on the ground, at which time hunger makes most birds less suspicious of danger.

[Illustration: 19. Catbird scolding.]

From a considerable experience which, through poor equipment, has not yielded adequate return, I am convinced that one may secure excellent pictures of many birds by decoying them with either a mounted or living Owl; doubtless the latter would be preferable, though I have never tried it. With a poorly mounted Screech Owl, however, I have had some excellent opportunities to photograph. My plan is to select some spot where birds are numerous, preferably near the home of a Catbird,^{19} place the Owl in a conspicuous position, and erect near it a “scolding perch,” from which the protesting bird may conveniently vituperate the poor unoffending little bunch of feathers with its staring yellow eyes. The camera is then focused on the scolding perch and the photographer retires into the undergrowth, and, bulb in hand, waits for some bird to take the desired stand.

A Catbird’s domain is chosen for the reason that this species is the alarmist of whatever neighborhood it may inhabit, and once its attention has been attracted to the Owl by “squeaking” or uttering the alarm notes of other birds, the photographer may subside and let the Catbird do the rest.

The bird’s rage is remarkable, its fear painful. Should the Owl be near to the Catbird’s nest it will utter notes in a tone of voice I have never heard it use on other occasions. It loses all fear of the camera, and from the scolding perch screams at the Owl with a vehemence which threatens to crack its throat. One is glad to remove the offending cause.

Other birds in the vicinity are of course attracted, and hasten to learn the meaning of the uproar. Often a bit of undergrowth, of which the Catbird was apparently the only feathered tenant, will be found to possess a large bird population. It is interesting to observe the difference in the actions of various birds as they learn the reason of the disturbance. On the whole, each species displays its characteristic disposition in a somewhat accentuated manner. The Blue-winged Warblers flit to and fro for a few moments and then are gone; the Chestnut-sided Warbler is quite anxious; the Maryland Yellow-throat somewhat annoyed; the Ovenbird decidedly concerned; the Towhee bustles about, but seems to pay no especial attention to the Owl; the Wood Thrush utters its sharp _pit-pit_, but is content to let well enough alone if its own nest be not threatened; and the Yellow-throated, Red-eyed, and White-eyed Vireos, particularly the latter, add their complaining notes to the chorus of protests. Not one, however, approaches the Catbird in the force of its remarks, nor does the bird cease to outcry so long as the Owl is visible.

It is felt that in the foregoing suggestions the methods which may be employed by the bird photographer are very inadequately described, but, as was remarked in the preface of this volume, the constantly varying circumstances attending his work practically prohibit duplication of experience.

In truth, herein lies the great charm of animal photography. We have not to follow certain formulæ, but each subject presents its own individual requirements, making the demands on the naturalist’s skill and patience limitless and success proportionately valuable.

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.

[Illustration: 20. House Sparrows and Junco.]

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.

[Illustration: 21. Junco. × 3.]

[Illustration: 22. Female House Sparrow and nest. × 3.]

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.

[Illustration: 23. Screech Owl. × 3.]

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.

THE CHICKADEE _A Study in Black and White_

Very early in my experience as a hunter I became acquainted with a small black-and-white bird, who not only announced himself with unmistakable distinctness, but did so at such close range that one could form a very clear idea of his appearance; and thus because of his notes and trustfulness I learned to know the Chickadee by name years before I was aware that the woods were tenanted by dozens of other more common but less fearless birds.

With regret for the universality of the instinct, I found that to see was to desire. I had felt exactly the same longing in regard to other birds, and had thrown many a stone in a fruitless effort to get possession of the half-mysterious wild creatures which always eluded me; but the Chickadee came within range of my bean-shooter and soon paid the penalty of misplaced confidence. The little ball of flesh and fluffy feathers was perfectly useless, so after a day or two, the length of time depending on the temperature, it was thrown away.

My curiosity concerning the Chickadee being satisfied, and the bird’s tameness making it too easy a mark even for a bean-shooter, I entered on a new phase of Chickadee relations. Strangely enough, the killing of the bird seemed, from my point of view, to constitute an introduction to a creature which before I had known only imperfectly, and my acquaintance with the Chickadee may be said to have begun when I picked up the first bird that fell before my aim. However the Chickadee may have regarded my somewhat questionable manner of gaining his friendship, he has since given unmistakable evidences of his approval of my treatment of his kind. He always replies to my greeting, often coming many yards in answer to my call, and on a number of occasions he has honored me above most men by alighting on my hand.

When, in more recent years, the gun which succeeded the bean-shooter was in turn replaced by a camera, I found that the Chickadee’s tameness made him a mark for my later as he had been for my earlier efforts in bird hunting. Now, however, I believe I may speak for him as well as for myself, and say that the results obtained are more satisfactory to us both. It was in Central Park, New York city, in February, 1899, that I went on one of my first Chickadee hunts with a camera. Incidentally the locality gave emphasis to the advantages of the camera over any other weapon. Imagine the surprise of the park police had I ventured on their precincts with a gun on my shoulder! But with a camera I could snap away at pleasure without any one’s being the wiser—many of my “snaps,” I confess being attended by exactly this result. At this time, through the efforts of an enthusiastic and patient bird lover, who had improved on the bird-catching legend by using nuts instead of “salt” and by substituting bill for “tail,” three Chickadees in the Ramble had become so remarkably tame that they would often flutter before one’s face and plainly give expression to their desire for food, which they took from one’s hand without the slightest evidence of fear. Sometimes they even remained to pick the nut from a shell while perched on one’s finger, anon casting questioning glances at their host; but more often they preferred a perch where they could give their entire attention to the nut which was held between their feet, and pecked at after the manner of Blue Jays.

[Illustration: 24. Chickadee on ground.]

In spite of the ease with which one could approach these Chickadees, they made difficult marks for the camera. I was armed with a “Henry Clay” 5 × 7 and a twin-lens camera of the same size, but so active were the little creatures that not one of many exposures proved to be perfectly focused. Finally I tried decoying the birds to a bone or bit of bread in the bushes, but somehow they did not succeed in discovering these baits until they were placed on the ground.^{24, 25} Then they responded so quickly that often the bread had disappeared while my head was concealed by the dark-cloth, and frequently, while focusing, the birds would alight on the tripod of the camera. I was forced, therefore, to focus on a stone, and, when ready to make the exposure, lay a bit of bread on or near the focal point, the two pictures given being thus obtained.

[Illustration: 25. Chickadee taking piece of bread.]

Various experiences with these unusually tame birds finally led to what at first thought would have been considered the wholly unreasonable ambition of photographing one of them in my hand. The camera was therefore erected at a suitable point and focused on the trunk of a tree, the shutter set, and slide drawn.

[Illustration: 26. A bird in the hand.]

Now to get the bird. None was in the immediate vicinity, but a whistle soon brought a response from some neighboring tree tops, and going beneath them I shortly had called the bird down to a nut in my palm, and with him on my finger started to walk the eighty or more feet to the camera. This, however, was asking too much, and the bird abandoned his moving perch for a bordering row of evergreens, from which one or two more trials brought him within a short distance of the desired spot, and resting my arm against the tree trunk and with the other hand on the trigger of the shutter I called again the two plaintive notes. The bird’s faith was still strong. Almost immediately he took the desired position, when a _click_ announced the realization of a bird photographer’s wildest dream.

Fortunate is the bird photographer who discovers an advantageously situated Chickadee’s nest. Dr. Robert’s charming description in Bird-Lore of his experience with a family of Chickadees stimulated my desire to make a camera study of this species. The first nest found, however, was claimed by a band of roving boys, who in pure wantonness pushed down the stub from which a few days later the young would have issued.

A second time I was more fortunate. It was on the morning of May 29, 1899, at Englewood, N. J., that in going through a young second growth I chanced to see a Chickadee, who in arranging her much-worn plumage gave unmistakable evidence of having recently left her nest. At once I looked about for a partly decayed white birch, a tree especially suited to the Chickadee’s powers and needs. The bark remains tough and leathery long after the interior is crumbling, and having penetrated the outer shell the Chickadee finds no difficulty in excavating a chamber within.

A few moments’ search revealed a stub so typical as to match exactly the image I held in my mind’s eye, with an opening about four feet from the ground. The interior was too gloomy to enable one to determine its contents, but, returning in half an hour, I tapped the stub lightly, when, as though I had released the spring of a Jack-in-a-box, a Chickadee popped out of the opening and into a neighboring tree. I wished her good morning, assured her that my intentions were of the best, and promised to return and secure her portrait at the first opportunity.

Four days later I set up my camera before the door to the Chickadee’s dwelling, and, without attempting to conceal it, attached thread to the shutter and retreated in the undergrowth to a distance of about twenty-five feet.

After having had most discouraging experiences with several birds, who had evidently regarded the camera as a monster of destruction, and had refused to return to their nests as long as the evil eye of the lens was on them, it was consoling to find a bird who had some degree of confidence in human nature as represented by photographic apparatus.