Part 5

While we waited in our boats at a distance of fifteen feet, and with cameras erected on tripods at a third of the distance, she came walking through the reeds uttering occasionally an explosive _quoh!_ After circling about us several times she climbed to her nest, and at once proceeded to investigate the condition of its contents. Soon she gave evidence of the possession of both a philosophic and economic disposition, not to mention other housewifely qualities, notably cleanliness. Philosophy she exhibited by making the best of things as she found them; economy by carefully eating^{36} the two broken eggs, which a more thoughtless bird would have deserted or quickly discarded; and cleanliness by carefully dropping over the edge of the nest the shells remaining from her peculiar feast, and following them by bits of nest lining which had been soiled by portions of the egg. This task accomplished to her satisfaction, she gave further evidence of the possession of a well-ordered mind by descending to the water, washing her bill, drinking, and then returning to her remaining three eggs, on which she settled herself^{37} as complacently as though she had met with no loss, and there we left her in well-deserved privacy.

TWO HERONS

In this age of death and destruction to all living creatures, which, because of their size or edible qualities, the so-called sportsman is proud to exhibit as evidence of his skill afield, it is remarkable that there should exist within twenty odd miles of New York’s City Hall a colony of Herons which would do credit to the most remote swamp of Florida.

Three factors have combined to render this rookery possible: first, its isolation; second, the habits of its occupants; and third, the protection which is afforded it by the owner of the land on which it is situated. Of these, the first is by far the most important, and I may be pardoned, therefore, if I do not betray the birds’ secret; for, much as I desire to encourage American industries, I must on this occasion withhold information of undoubted value to the feather trade.

The birds’ habits contribute toward their preservation, because they are largely nocturnal, “Night” being the specific name applied by the text-books to this particular kind of Heron; but to those who know him in nature, he is generally spoken of as “Quawk,” this being an excellent rendering of his common call.

The Night Heron or Quawk belongs among the birds for whom the setting sun marks the beginning of a new day—a fact which protects him from man and permits his existence in numbers where others of his family are rarely seen. Doubtless many of the residents of Heronville know their feathered neighbors only as a voice from the night, which comes to them when the birds, in passing over, utter their loud and startling call.

Finally, to the protecting influences of a love for seclusion and darkness must be added the unusual position assumed by the proprietor of the land, who will not permit any one to kill the birds, and, stranger still, does not kill them himself!

Thus it happens that any day in May or June, the months during which the Herons are at home, one may leave the crowded streets of New York and within an hour or so enter an equally crowded but quite different kind of town.

If after leaving the train you secure the same guide it was my good fortune to have, your way will lead over shaded roads, pleasant fields, and quiet woodland paths, and, if the sun is well up in the trees, you may enter the outskirts of the rookery and be wholly unaware, unless you approach from the leeward, that between two and three thousand Herons are within a few hundred yards of you.

One may gain a far better idea of Heron life, however, by visiting the rookery while the foliage is still glistening with dew. Then, from a distance, a chorus of croaks may be heard from the young birds as they receive what, in effect, is their supper. Old birds are still returning from fishing trips, and the froglike monotone of the young is broken by the sudden _quawks_ of their parents.

The rookery is in a low part of the woods which evidently is flooded early in the year, a fact which may have influenced the Herons in their selection of the locality as a nesting site. At the time of our visit the swamp maples, in which the nests are placed, were densely undergrown with ferns, and as we approached the whitened vegetation, which clearly marked the limits of the rookery, a number of Herons with squawks of alarm left the vicinity of their nests, and soon the rookery was in an uproar. The common _quawk_ note was often heard, but many of the calls were distinctly galline in character and conveyed the impression that we had invaded a henroost.

The trees in which the nests were placed are very tall and slender, mere poles some of them, with a single nest where the branches fork; while those more heavily limbed had four, five,^{38} and even six of the platforms of sticks, which with Herons serve as nests, but in only a single instance was one nest placed directly below another. A conservative count yielded a total of five hundred and twenty-five nests, all within a circle about one hundred yards in diameter, nearly every suitable tree holding one or more, the lowest being about thirty feet from the ground, the highest at least eighty feet above it.

While the limy deposits and partially digested fish dropped by the birds seemed not to affect the growth of the lower vegetation, it had a marked influence on certain of the swamp maples, the development of the trees which held a number of nests being so retarded that, although it was June 13th, they were as yet only in blossom.^{38} The comparative absence of foliage permitted one to have a far better view of what was going on above than if the trees had been thickly leaved, and on entering the rookery our attention was at once attracted by the nearly grown Herons, who, old enough to leave the nest, had climbed out on the adjoining limbs. There, silhouetted against the sky, they crouched in family groups of two, three, and four.^{39}

[Illustration: 38. Five Herons’ nests in swamp maple, at an average height of seventy feet. The upper right-hand nest with young shown in Nos. 41 and 42.]

[Illustration: 39. A view in the Heron rookery, looking upward from the ground to nests and young, about eighty feet above.]

Other broods, inhabitants of more thickly leaved trees, made known their presence above by disgorging a half-digested eel, which dropped with a thud at our feet and occasionally nearer, suggesting the advisability of carrying an umbrella. The vegetation beneath the well-populated trees was as white as though it had been liberally daubed with whitewash, and the ground was strewn with blue-green eggshells neatly broken in two across the middle; fish, principally eels, in various stages of digestion and decay; and the bodies of young birds who had met with an untimely death by falling from above. It was not altogether a savory place!

[Illustration: 40. Black-crowned Night Herons feeding. Telephoto, × 2 at a distance of about one hundred and fifty feet.]

Seating ourselves at the base of an unoccupied tree, we had not long to wait before the normal life of the rookery was resumed. The young, who while we were observed had been silent, now began to utter a singular, froglike _kik-kik-kik_ in chorus, and the old birds one by one returned. When food was brought an increased outcry was heard from the expectant youngsters about to be fed. At intervals a resounding _thump_ announced the fall of some too eager bird, but, in the cases which we investigated, the Heron, if fairly well grown, seemed to be little the worse for his tumble of from fifty to seventy feet, and with lowered head ran through the undergrowth with surprising quickness. With those which were younger, however, the mortality had evidently been great, and, seeing the dozens of dead birds on the ground beneath the nest trees from which they had fallen, one questioned whether this habit of nesting high in trees had not, for protective reasons, been recently acquired by a species the young of which would seem much more at home nearer the ground.

[Illustration: 41. Young Night Herons in nest. Same as No. 42.]

It was with a delightful sense of companionship with the birds that I observed them going and coming, feeding their young, or resting after the night’s labors, wholly undisturbed by my presence. Almost I seemed to be a guest of the rookery, and I longed for power to interpret the notes and actions of the birds so abundant about me.

[Illustration: 42. Young Night Herons leaving nest. Nesting tree shown in No. 38.]

So I should like to have passed the day with them, becoming for the time being a Heron myself; but the desire to picture the birds was stronger than the wish to be a Heron, and the situation was considered from the standpoint of the bird photographer.

The rookery proved to be a difficult subject. No single view would convey an adequate idea of its appearance, and I therefore selected representative tree tops and photographed their nests and young birds. A visit to a neighboring pond resulted in securing, with the aid of a telephoto, a picture^{40} of two adult birds feeding well out of gunshot, and with the assistance of climbers I reached the upper branches of a tree some seventy feet in height containing five nests whose contents ranged from eggs to nearly grown young. With the ball-and-socket clamp the camera was fastened to favoring limbs, and after three hours’ work several satisfactory pictures of young in the nest and on the adjoining branches were secured.^{41–43} Although well able to defend themselves, the young assumed no such threatening attitudes as the American Bittern strikes when alarmed, from which perhaps we may argue that they are happily ignorant of the dangers which beset their ground-nesting relative.

[Illustration: 43. Young Night Herons on branches near nest, seventy feet from the ground.]

As the sun crept upward and the last fishers returned, the calls of both old and young birds were heard less and less often, and by ten o’clock night had fallen on the rookery and the birds were all resting quietly. Four o’clock in the afternoon was evidently early morning, and at this hour the birds first began to leave the rookery for their fishing grounds. Some went toward the north, others to the south, east or west; each bird no doubt having clearly in mind some favorite shore, perhaps a dozen miles away, where he before had had good luck a-fishing; and of all the varied phases of rookery life the thought of this regular nightly expedition of hundreds of winged fishers, is to me the most attractive.

Our largest Heron as well as our largest bird is the Great Blue. “Crane” he is popularly called; but, aside from other differences, the bird’s habit of folding its neck back on its shoulders, when on the wing, will distinguish it from true Cranes, who fly with neck extended to the utmost.

The Great Blue Heron is not edible, but its size makes it a desirable prize to most gunners and it is considered an especially fit mark for a rifle. The temptation is strong to condemn as an outlaw the man who kills one of these noble birds for what he terms sport, or perhaps for the purpose of what he would call having it “set up.” He, however, is acting according to his light, which is quite as bright as that which shines for most of his neighbors. The Heron is exceedingly wild, and its capture is eloquent evidence of the hunter’s prowess, while his desire to have its stuffed skin adorn his home is, from his point of view, positively commendable. That the bird is infinitely more valuable alive than dead, that its presence adds an element to the landscape more pleasing to some than could be imparted by any work of man, and that in depriving others of the privilege of observing its singularly stately grace of pose and motion he is selfish beyond expression, does not even vaguely occur to this so-called “sportsman,” who belongs in the class to whom a majestic cliff is a quarry, a noble tree, lumber. Until he has been educated to properly value the beauties of Nature, or at least realize the rights of others in them, he must be restrained by law, to the force of which even he is not blind.

Only the Great Blue Heron’s extreme wariness and habit of frequenting shores and marshes where it can command an extended view of its surroundings has preserved it from extinction; but when nesting it is compelled to visit woodlands where its human enemies have better opportunities to approach it, and its only chance for safety during the breeding season is to select a retreat remote from the home of man. For this reason Great Blue Heron rookeries are exceedingly uncommon in more settled parts of the bird’s range, and north of Florida I have seen their nests in only one locality.

It was the week after my visit to the Night Herons that, in northern Cayuga County, New York, I was led by a local ornithologist through one of the heaviest pieces of timber I have ever seen north of a primeval tropical forest, in search of a Great Blue Heron rookery which he knew to exist, and only my confidence in his woodsmanship gave me courage to follow him over fallen trees and through the season’s dense undergrowth, from which our passage raised such a host of mosquitoes that every step was a battle. If the vicious little insects had lived only to protect the Herons, they could not have disputed our progress more valiantly, and on reaching the birds’ stronghold, where the comparative absence of undergrowth deprived our winged foes of shelter, I congratulated myself on what, for the moment, seemed to be no insignificant feat.

The eleven nests which my guide had seen on a previous occasion were found occupying their former positions, at least one hundred feet from the ground in dead trees, one of which held five of the eleven. During the many years which the birds have nested in the place their number has not varied, and one wonders what becomes of the from thirty to forty young who doubtless each year leave the parental trees. No other Herons of this species are known to nest in the vicinity, and it is not probable that the progeny of each year would seek a nesting site in some far distant rookery; consequently, as an alternative explanation, we can only suppose that the yearly product of the rookery balances its losses by death.

The young birds were now nearly half grown, but, unlike the Night Herons, they did not venture outside their nests, from which they uttered harsh croaks in evident supplication to their parents for food. The sight of the trees in which the nests were placed effectually controlled whatever ambitions I had entertained toward camera studies at short range, and I contented myself by making telephotos from the ground, in one of which an adult bird and two nests, each with a young bird appearing above its edge, may be seen.^{44}

Time was lacking in which to observe these birds, and the value of my visit to their retreat is not to be expressed in words. The wildness of their home seemed in perfect accord with their nature, and their apparent safety from intrusion brought a sense of satisfaction which colors my memory of the whole experience.

[Illustration: 44. Looking upward from ground to nests and young and adult bird of Great Blue Heron at a height of over one hundred feet. Telephoto.]

WHERE SWALLOWS ROOST

Contributing little to the material wealth of the nation, the Hackensack marshes of northern New Jersey are usually regarded as “waste land.” By the farmer they are termed “salt medders,” and their waving grasses are of value to him only as “bedding” for cattle. In winter the muskrat hunter reaps a harvest of pelts there. The down of the “cat-tails” is gathered for cushion stuffing, and the bladed leaves for chair bottoms. To the gunner they are the resort of Ducks, Snipe, Rail, and Reedbirds, which each year visit them in decreasing numbers; while to the thousands who daily pass them on the encircling railroads they are barren and uninteresting. But if beauty is a sufficient cause for being, then these marshes may claim a right to existence.

In preglacial times this region was probably forested, but now the forest is buried beneath the drift of the glacier which deposited fragments of Palisade and Orange Mountain trap rock on Staten Island. During the depression of the land which occurred as the ice gradually receded, the waters of the sea doubtless passed up here and the meadow was a larger “Newark Bay.” Then commenced their slow filling up by the silt brought down by the Hackensack River. The river has preserved a right of way, but the bay has given place to a sea of reeds and grasses.

[Illustration: 45. Hackensack marshes in August.]

On a bright August morning I mount a spur of trap rock which reaches out from the western base of the Palisades, and from this elevation have an uninterrupted view over the meadows. The cool, invigorating air foretells the approach of autumn; it is brilliantly clear. The Orange hills stand out with the distinctness of Western mountains. The sun is at my back, and the light shows the meadows to the best advantage. At this distance I get the effect of only the masses of color; tracts of yellowish green meadow grass tinged with copper, and in places thickly sprinkled with the white flowers of the water hemlock and water parsnip; streaks of light green wild rice, and sharply defined areas of dark green cat-tail flags. The grass grows on the drier land, the wild rice in the small sloughs and creeks which are bordered by the flags. In the spring the wind blows the pollen from the cat-tail blossoms, and a shifting greenish vapor floats over the marsh; in the autumn a heavy westerly wind raises the seed-bearing down high in the air, carries it over the Palisades, across the Hudson, and it descends like a fall of fleecy snow on wondering New York.

The marsh is a vast arena inclosed by the Palisades and Passaic hills; it is a great plain, with blue stretches of the winding river appearing here and there, and the haystacks are the huts of aborigines. I half close my eyes, and it is a copper-yellow sea. The grasses roll in undulating waves, capped by a white crest of parsnip and hemlock blossoms; the dark irregular patches of flags are the shadows of clouds, the light streaks of wild rice are shoals, a hovering Marsh Hawk is a Gull. A stately white-winged schooner^{45} comes up the river; her hull is hidden by the meadow grasses; she is sailing through the sea of my fancy.

This is an impressionist’s view of the meadows. Now let us leave our rocky lookout and examine them more in detail. The meadow we are leaving is a meadow of all summer; the one we are approaching is a meadow clad in all the glory of its August flowers. One might think Nature was holding a flower show here, so gorgeous is the display. The railway track at the edge of the marsh is apparently an endless aisle bordered by a rich exhibit of flowers. Clusters of thoroughwort and purple loose-strife grow so abundantly they give color to the foreground, through which wild sunflowers make streaks of gold. There are solid beds of purple asters on the drier land, and delicate snow-white saggitarias in the sloughs. Jewel flowers sparkle through the flags, and convolvulus hangs from the reeds, its own foliage scarce showing, or, growing with the fragrant climbing hempweed, it forms banks of dense vegetation. The scarlet lobelia darts upward like a tongue of flame, startling in its intense brilliancy. There are burnet, vervain, gerardia, and running groundnut. But it is the marsh^{46} mallow which, more than any other flower, gives beauty to the meadow. It grows here with wasteful luxuriance, and the dark masses of flags serve as a frame for this floral picture. Out in the marsh it grows in equal profusion; the meadow is hung with small pink lanterns, as if for a _fête_. A single flower of the marsh mallow commands the attention of the most unobservant, and when growing in abundance it excites enthusiastic admiration.

[Illustration: 46. Marsh mallows.]

Nor is the animal life of the marsh less interesting than its flora. Meadow mice nest beneath the haycocks. Were it not for the minks and Hawks which prey on them, they might become a scourge throughout the surrounding country. Muskrats are living in peaceful security in their snug summer homes, hollowed from the banks of the streams. They are the true villagers here, and pass the winter in icy huts, like Eskimos. Out in the grasses Short-eared Owls are hiding. Their day begins when the sun disappears behind the Orange hills; then one may hear the “quawk” of the Night Heron. Red-winged Blackbirds nest here, and in the autumn they gather in great flocks and feed on the wild rice.

[Illustration: 47. Wild rice.]

Long-billed Marsh Wrens—small, nervous, excitable bits of feathered life—are abundant in the flags, and to them they attach their large woven nests. Except for a harsh, scolding note they are silent now, but earlier in the year the marsh is musical with their rippling songs. The fervor of the love season overcomes their fondness for the dark recesses of the flags, and, singing, they rise into the air as if driven upward by the mine of melody which explodes within them.

Swamp Sparrows are common, and their clear trill is one of the few August songs. Bobolinks, traveling in disguise and under the assumed name of “Reedbird,” pause here to feed on the ripening wild rice.^{47} Some of them have not yet completed their change of costume and appear in a spotted suit of black and yellow. Occasionally one hears a suppressed burst of the “mad music” of June, but their common note is a metallic _chink_. At night this note is heard from high in the air, as the birds continue their journey to the cultivated rice fields of South Carolina and Georgia, there to remain until September or October, when they leave for their winter home south of the Amazon.

The Sora Rails, beloved of sportsmen and epicures, are also attracted to the marshes by the wild rice. On their arrival in early August they are indeed “as thin as a rail,” but an abundance of food soon rounds their bodies into comparative plumpness. The 1st of September is a black day in their calendar. Then they are outlawed, a price is set on their bodies, and at high tide each day during this sad month one sees numerous puffs of smoke arise from the tall grasses and dull reports come booming over the marsh with fateful frequency.

But the characteristic birds of the marshes at this season are Swallows. They outnumber many times all the rest of the marsh birds together—in fact, are present in such myriads that their gatherings are one of the most interesting and impressive phenomena of the bird life of this region.