The Black-masked Warbler

I drove slowly along the refuge road at Brigantine on the New Jersey coast, watching the small birds popping up from the reeds and grasses and disappearing again quickly. Most were Song Sparrows still in the early stages of their annual breeding cycle - the males singing and defending their territory - the females building nests. Between scanning the mud flats for shorebirds, I was checking out these small birds, looking for the Seaside Sparrow or the more elusive Saltmarsh Sharp-tailed Sparrow. Occasionally I saw the Seaside Sparrow clinging to the top of a broken reed and singing his weak imitation of a Red-winged Blackbird.

A small brown bird flew across the narrow road, its flight and profile different from the ever-present Song Sparrow. It grabbed onto the top of a brown grass stalk. I grabbed my binoculars, hoping for a brief glimpse of the secretive Sharp-tailed before it dropped out of sight. The brown-backed bird turned, and I saw a bright yellow breast. From the side of its head, across both eyes and brow, it wore a black mask. He quivered with attention as he surveyed his neighborhood, then sang out with “witchity-witchity-witchity.”

In the moist, young forest along the Delaware River in Pennsylvania, I heard several warblers and vireos singing and calling in the brushy understory and the canopy overhead. They were moving slowly as they foraged among the leaves. Glimpses were brief, only enough to know that a bird had gone to a new perch or new branch. Softly, I tried to call them down - “phish, phish, phish.” The strange sound will sometimes attract the birds. But this day, they were unimpressed and out of sight.

I tried again - “phish ... pish ... pish.” There was movement in the bushes. I watched and saw movement again. My binoculars focused on the small bird whose curiosity got the better of his hunger, or caution. He wore a black mask above his yellow chin and breast. He chipped loudly as he checked out the disturbance, then dropped into the thick protection of the bush. From deep in the tangle, I heard “witch-i-ty ... witch-i-ty ... witch-i-ty.”

Across the road near my home are the remnants of a pasture edge - a few tall young maples and oaks rise above the melange of cherry, honeysuckle and other small trees and bushy plants. Walking along the road, I heard a Chestnut-sided Warbler singing from a tree top. I saw him moving along a branch that had not yet fully leafed out. He paused, lifted his head and sang his “pleased-pleased-pleased-to-meetcha.”

I wanted a closer look at the Chestnut-sided, but had no binoculars with me. So I tried to “phish” him down. He moved immediately, disappearing into the foliage above, and sang again. From the thicket of roses, willows, and honeysuckle, a small bird came to inspect the neighborhood disturbance. To emphasize his territorial prerogatives, he cocked his short tail up and raised his black-masked head. “Watcha-see, watcha-see, watcha-see.”

The small black-masked bird - common in coastal marshes, common in the brushy edges of fields, common in alder swamps, common in the understory of open forests, common in open wetlands, common in the shrubbery along streams - is commonly known as the Common Yellowthroat. The Common Yellowthroat is common in numbers, but uncommon in much of its behavior. He is a warbler, a rather stubby and short-tailed warbler. He is a nonconformist - the only warbler who nests in open marsh, but also content to nest wherever he can find relatively moist and dense habitat.

Watch the behavioral antics of the black-masked Common Yellowthroat, and you might think you are watching a wren. He has the cocked-up tail, the quivering intensity, the curiosity and pugnacity that is commonly associated with the wren family - all of which is markedly uncommon in the warbler family.

The Common Yellowthroat is a very uncommon type of warbler. He doesn’t seem to know what he is supposed to be. But then neither did the early naturalists; they named him Geothlypis trichas; the elements of the name mean successively “earth,” “a kind of finch,” and “a thrush.” Those early naturalists got it wrong, but the rules of scientific nomenclature require that their mistakes be perpetuated. Only the “geo” (earth) part is partly correct; the Common Yellowthroat usually nests very close to the ground.

As ubiquitous as the Common Yellowthroat is (there is hardly a day of birding during the summer when I don’t see or hear him) he is my favorite bird. When he pops out of the thicket and complains about my intrusion on his peace, I can only smile ... and apologize for having disturbed him.

Forbush captured the appeal of the Common Yellowthroat as succinctly as any writer: “To make his acquaintance one has only to visit his favorite haunts ... when presto! up bobs that masquerading scrap of animated feathers, nervously voicing his alarm with a variety of scolding chirps and chattering notes, his black eyes sparkling with excitement. Suddenly he explodes in a vigorous outburst of song, ... and darting impatiently here and there in the low undergrowth, plainly announces that his privacy has been disturbed; but his curiosity and indignation are soon over, and scurrying to the shelter of his retreat, he leaves the cause of his disquietude flooded with emotions of surprise and delight. The Yellowthroat captivates one’s fancy.”

At dusk early this week, I heard the “tu-tu-tu ... tu-tu-tu” of a Black-billed Cuckoo. Stalking the sound, I determined that it was coming from somewhere in the mid-branches of a maple tree. I peered into the dark branches, circled around the tree, searching for bird, but the fading light of the day rendered the search futile. My bare feet chilled from the early dew on the grass, a contrast to the humid warm air of the evening.

I gave up and retreated to the porch. From somewhere along the brushy banks of the river, I heard the New England dialect of the Common Yellowthroat teasing me - “watcha-see ... watcha-see ... watcha-see.”

“Not much tonight, my friend,” I answered.

The birding is always good when the black-masked Common Yellowthroat is around.

The Blue Jay - One of the Smart Birds

During the last week, I’ve had a couple of people tell me that they do not like Blue Jays. I responded that the reason so many people don’t like Blue Jays is because they are smarter than we are.

That Blue Jays are smarter than humans may not be strictly true - although I am not always very impressed by the intelligence exhibited among our species. What is true is that Blue Jays, as members of the Corvidae family, have the highest degree of intelligence among the birds. The Corvids, which include crows, ravens, jays, and magpies, have astonishing memories and exhibit the ability to solve problem. Naturalists have recognized for years that members of this family have languages of their own. When we listen to Blue Jays, we hear a wide variety of calls, clucks, gurgles and bubbles. The variety and complexity of these sounds - noises we sometimes call them - is more correctly described as their “language” by which they communicate issues of concern among the Blue Jay population.

The Blue Jay has a reputation as a noisy bird, a characteristic shared with its closest relative, the Steller’s Jay of the western mountains. Both belong to the Genus, Cyanocitta, which comes from the Greek meaning “chattering blue bird.” The Blue Jay is Cyanocitta cristata; the species name means “crested” in Latin.

The “jay” of the Blue Jay’s name probably derives ultimately from the attempt to imitate the sound that the “jay” birds make. As with many word derivations, there are alternatives. One alternative is that “jay” derives from the French, geai, so named for the gay (bright) plumage. Another suggests that it is a nickname, or short form, of Gaius - a common first name among the Romans, as in Gaius Julius Caesar.

In addition to its reputation for noise (a well-deserved reputation), the Blue Jay has been labeled a nest robber, a bird which consumes the eggs and nestlings of smaller song birds. John James Audubon established this reputation with his painting, showing three Blue Jays consuming eggs, and with his anecdotal observations and reports of the Blue Jay’s predations. This reputation has been sustained by many writers ever since.

But the evidence does not sustain the reputation. Arthur Bent in his life history of the Blue Jay, sites a study of the diet of the Blue Jay done in 1897. A researcher collected 292 stomachs in every month of the year from 22 states. He found that the Blue Jay’s diet “is composed of 24.3 percent animal matter and 75.7 percent vegetable matter .... The animal food is chiefly made up of insects, with a few spiders, myriapods, snails, and small vertebrates, such as fish, salamanders, tree frogs, mice and birds. Everything was carefully examined which might by any possibility indicate that birds or eggs had been eaten, but remains of birds were found in only 2, and the shells of small birds’ eggs in 3 of the 292 stomachs.”

The researcher concluded: “The most striking point in the study of the food of the blue jay is the discrepancy between the testimony of field observers concerning the bird’s nest robbing proclivities and the results of stomach examinations. The accusations of eating eggs and young birds are certainly not sustained ....”

The Blue Jays in my neighborhood are bringing their annual breeding season to a close. Few juveniles are being fed any longer by the adults, though they occasionally give some wing flutters and begging calls which are ignored. But the families stay together. When Blue Jays fly in, there are four to eight birds - two adults and the young that have survived from the original clutch of 2 to 6 eggs.

The whole process began sometime in mid-May when the adults began building their nest, a cup made of twigs, bark, rootlets, grass and perhaps paper, rags, and feathers. It looks something like a robin’s nest, and there is at least one report of Blue Jays expropriating a robin’s nest, to the chagrin of the robins. The two and a half week incubation is done almost entirely by the female; the male feeds her, and on occasion may spell her on the eggs. When the naked and helpless hatch, feeding is done by both parents. Eyes open after five days; feathers begin to form after a week.

By the time they are three weeks old, the young leave the nest, and the period of Blue Jay quiet is at an end. Young noisily call for their parents and then chase their parents. This continues for about three weeks. When the young have learned to feed themselves, Forbush writes, “the family roams through the woods, reveling in plenty that nature has provided for them; they are joined by others and it is a noisy rollicking crew.”

Blue Jays can be relatively long lived. Banding records have yielded ages up to 15 years, and there are many records of banded Blue Jays living 6-9 years.

Blue Jays migrate. I have been on Putney Mountain in the Fall and have watched as hundreds of Blue Jays flew across the opening on the crest of the ridge during early morning hours. But there is very little known about their migration. Banding records indicate the movement of Blue Jays from (for example) Massachusetts to North Carolina and New York to Virginia. But Blue Jays are also found year-round throughout their breeding range. Are the birds which we see in the winter birds which bred in our area, or birds which have migrated from some other breeding area, presumably further to the north? We don’t know.

A few years ago a friend in Marlboro tried banding winter birds with color bands so that he could identify them by sight during Spring and Summer. He saw some of the winter birds as breeding season began. Unfortunately, he was not able to continue the study, and few Blue Jays were among his banded birds. So the answer is still unknown, although the means of doing the study is there for a future researcher.

Blue Jays, like their Corvid cousins, cache food for later use. They have wonderful memories, but not perfect memories. (Alas, who does?) They often store one of their favorite foods, acorns, in soft soil. Unretrieved, the acorns sprout. Nancy Henry of the Highlands Nature Sanctuary in Ohio discovered that this caching of acorns by Blue Jays made them welcome partners in her reforestation efforts: “When it comes to industry and ingenuity in our own backyard, there is no better forester among the animals than our boisterous friend of the deciduous forest, the bluer-than-blue blue jay of Eastern North America.”

I have attempted this week to keep most “human elements” out of this column - those things which lead to such descriptions as rogue, thief, lawless, haughty, and boisterous, and which make the Blue Jay such a welcome and entertaining habitue of my feeders. Just the facts, you might say.

But I can’t resist finishing with a quote from another Blue Jay fan: “There’s more to a jay than any other creature. You may call a jay a bird. Well, so he is, in a measure, ’cause he’s got feathers on him and he don’t belong to no church perhaps, but otherwise he’s just as much a human as you and me.” So wrote Mark Twain. Good birding!

Young Birds Bring Constant Activity to Bird Feeders

During the last week, I have found it impossible to sit on my back porch and read. Oh, I try. But there is such a riot of activity that I can’t even open the book.

Many neighborhood birds are bringing their nesting season to a conclusion, (though some may nest for a second or third time). The young are gathering at my feeders, sometimes following a parent. Or when the parents have gotten tired of feeding them, the young return to my feeders on their own. It seems that every bird amenable to bird feeders has brought their young around to enjoy my largess. The results are wild and raucous.

I’ve never had so many grackles. They’ve been breeding with such proficiency that the plain brown-black young form flocks, following iridescent adults here and there, their route of passage crossing and crisscrossing my yard with pauses in the apple tree, quick forays for ground seed, then off to the pines across the river.

The grackles are noisy, but they are nothing compared to the Blue Jays. The Blue Jays go nowhere without screaming about it. The young have been fluttering their wings in the apple tree, demanding to be fed, and their parents are accommodating ... up to a point. Once the point has been reached, the begging youngsters are disciplined and chased, and gradually get the idea that the free meals have ended. It is time to do for themselves.

Many young birds look almost identical to their parents when they leave the nest and begin traveling on their own. A clue to their young age is their cluelessness. I watched a young Blue Jay picking seeds on the ground. It was getting plenty to eat. The older jays shovel copious amounts of seed from the feeder as they seek the one seed suitable to their palate. The shoveled seeds supply the many ground feeders, including the chipmunks and squirrels. (My feelings about chipmunks whose cheek pouches bulge with my seed are ambiguous at best.)

The young jay was getting plenty to eat. But it clearly had little clue about any dangers or risks. It was still dealing with the unwelcome reality that mom and dad were no longer going to feed him and he had to feed himself.

On the cluelessness scale, the young Mourning Doves rank the highest. Sometimes the young doves have a scaliness to their plumage lacking in the adults, but that disappears after a short time. It is cluelessness that gives away their young age. Mourning Doves begin nesting very early in the Spring; they lay two eggs, and once that small brood has been raised, they do it again ... and again ... three or four broods a year. This means that there can be many naive youngsters hanging around. Doves are generally quiet and gentle birds, but the young exhibit these traits to an extreme. I can easily approach the feeder where they like to rest - sometimes as close as three or four feet before the youngsters finally, and reluctantly, take flight. They have no idea that two legged creatures are the most dangerous creatures in the world. For that matter, they have no idea that their gentle passivity makes them favorite prey for a Sharp-shinned or Cooper’s Hawk, also birds which are attracted to the convenience of backyard feeders.

Smaller birds are often more difficult to age. Young chickadees, titmice, nuthatches, finches, and many sparrows quickly lose their downiness and look like their parents within a few days of leaving the nest. But the chickadee on the branch over my head that impatiently flutters its wings, or the finch in the dogwood crouched and chittering with open beak is a young bird wanting to be fed, and in moments a harried parent will accommodate its demand ... for the moment.

Five Evening Grosbeaks on the platform feeder one morning included three juveniles. They weren’t begging, and their plumage was very similar to the adult females, but there was a hesitancy about their feeding which gave away their youthfulness.

An aside about bird feeders. My feeders were trashed in early June by a young bear. He came back a day later, nosing around the composter. My spouse, using her authoritative, disciplinary tone honed by many years in the classroom, admonished his misbehavior, clapped her hands and chased him off. He has not returned, and we have replaced our feeders. But to remove temptation, we bring them at night. The birds have readily adjusted, although it sometimes seems that the jays are especially noisy on those rare mornings when we sleep past 6:30.

For sheer entertainment, the woodpeckers have led the way this year. It’s been a banner year. I usually have two pair of Downy Woodpeckers and a pair of Hairy Woodpeckers which visit my suet feeder throughout the year. This summer (I am guessing) that number has doubled. It is hard to know for sure, but there have been so many young woodpeckers being fed by adults for so long (at least two weeks now, maybe three) that there must be a succession of families.

I become mesmerized watching a parent clamber over the suet cage, sometimes clinging upside down to the side or the bottom. The youngster also watches intently, creeping after the parent, squawking when it seems to be taking too long. Both are so intent on their tasks - feeding and being fed - that I can slowly approach, almost within touching distance, before they fly.

Then there is the adult picking out suet pieces who is approached by a young bird. Impatiently he chases off the youngster. Was the youngster someone else’s, hoping for a handout from any adult? Or was it still begging from a parent who had done enough and knew it was time for its offspring to fend for itself?

Young male Hairy and Downy Woodpeckers have a red cap (sometimes yellow on the Hairy) instead of red on the back of the head. So, it is possible to identify the juveniles after they have been weaned from their parents. I had a juvenile Hairy and a juvenile Downy hanging on opposite sides of the suet feeder, busily pecking away, while three more juveniles waited on the post and hanging basket for their turn. All flew off when Dad Downy flew in, followed by a juvenile female making her “ki, ki, ki, ki” begging calls. Then came mother Hairy with a fledgling in tow. She flew and he followed, and Dad Downy returned.

And so it continues through late afternoon and evening. There’s hardly any time to make dinner - just grab a quick leftover - because a young jay just made a last hopeful wing flutter before picking up seeds. Now the grackles are back. There’s a young catbird at the suet. Here comes the Hairy. There must be four Downies moving through the branches. Is it any wonder that I can’t read on the back porch with all this going on?

When do goldfinches start to breed?

This photo of the American Goldfinch was taken in my back yard on June 24. The Vermont Breeding Bird Atlas criteria for "Safe Dates" to record the species as possible or probable are 6/25-8/1. This goldfinch has (to me) the appearance of a recent fledgling. Incubation is 12-14 days. Young leave nest 11-17 days. This means the parents would have begun nesting June 1 or earlier.

In general, I have found birds which winter in N.A. breeding 2-3 weeks earlier than the "safe date." Birds coming from the tropics, seems to be breeding closer to the "safe dates," although often exhibiting breeding activity a few days earlier. But I am working on impression. I have not analyzed my data. And to some degree, I have been restrained when doing the VBBA by the "safe dates." When data is entered in the VBBA data base, the program certainly imposed constraints.

Rose-breasted Grosbeak - a Welcome Summer Resident

“One year, in the month of August, I was trudging along the shores of the Mohawk river, when night overtook me. Being little acquainted with that part of the country, I resolved to camp where I was; the evening was calm and beautiful, the sky sparkled with stars, which were reflected by the smooth waters, and the deep shade of the rocks and trees of the opposite shore fell on the bosom of the stream, while gently from afar came on the ear the muttering sound of the cataract. My little fire was soon lighted under a rock, and, spreading out my scanty stock of provisions, I reclined on my grassy couch. As I looked around on the fading features of the beautiful landscape, my heart turned towards my distant home, where my friends were doubtless wishing me, as I wished them, a happy night and peaceful slumbers. Then were heard the barkings of the watch-dog, and I tapped my faithful companion to prevent his answering them. The thoughts of my worldly mission then came over my mind, and having thanked the Creator of all for his never-failing mercy, I closed my eyes, and was passing away into the world of dreaming existence, when suddenly there burst on my soul the serenade of the Rose-breasted bird, so rich, so mellow, so loud in the stillness of the night, that sleep fled from my eyelids. Never did I enjoy music more: it thrilled through my heart, and surrounded me with an atmosphere of bliss. One might easily have imagined that even the Owl, charmed by such delightful music, remained reverently silent. Long after the sounds ceased did I enjoy them, and when all had again become still, I stretched out my wearied limbs, and gave myself up to the luxury of repose. In the morning I awoke vigorous as ever, and prepared to continue my journey.” - John James Audubon, Birds of America, octavo edition, 1871.

Audubon opened his account of the Rose-breasted Grosbeak with these unusually poetic words describing his night encounter. He was enamored with the beauty of both its song and it plumage. I can hardly disagreed. Of the two dozen or so species which regularly visit my feeders during the summer, the two summer grosbeaks, Rose-breasted (Cardinal family) and Evening (Finch family, are the ones which arrest my attention every time they appear.

The plumage of both is stunning, though very different. But if you add the respective songs into the mix, then I have to tip the balance in favor of the Rose-breasted Grosbeak. The Evening Grosbeak hardly has a song worthy of the term. The Rose-breasted, by contrast, sings like a robin who has taken voice lessons. When you hear a robin singing with fewer pauses and with particularly clear, liquid phrases, check the tree tops for a Rose-breasted.

The male Rose-breasted Grosbeak is a handsome specimen. On wings, back, and tail he presents a contrast of black and white. When I startle birds from my feeders with my sudden appearance, and see only a bold black and white pattern disappearing into the trees, I know that I have just scared him away.

But the breast is what catches the breathe. Beneath the dark, black hood covering the head, his breast is rose-red - a rose-red that often evokes the poetic, and even the tragic. The lower tip of the triangular rose-red often runs down toward the white belly, leading some to liken him to a jilted lover whose heart has been broken; his heart pierced by a cruel arrow, he bleeds out his love. From a harsher and more violent era, his folk name has sometimes been Throat-cut.

I prefer to imagine him a groom dressed for his wedding - tuxedo clad with a brilliant cummerbund to balance formality with gaiety.

All such imaginings are, of course, nonsense, although the nonsense prevails in the scientific name. The Rose-breasted Grosbeak is Pheucticus ludovicianus. Pheucticus, from the Greek, means “painted with cosmetics,” suggesting that his breast has been rouged; ludovicianus means “of Louisiana,” the area where the first specimen came from. The Rose-breasted shares its Genus with the western Black-headed Grosbeak.

In contrast to the male, the female Rose-breasted is a plain Jane. She looks like a big sparrow, or an oversized female Purple Finch.

Usually when a male is brilliantly attired and the female is plain, the male spends most of his time singing, continuing to boast his virtues and defend his territory. Domestic duties, particularly incubation, are left to the inconspicuous female. He may perhaps join in the feeding after the eggs hatch, but not necessarily.

The male Rose-breasted Grosbeak is unusual. He provides some help in building a flimsy nest and then shares in the incubation. When sitting on the nest, he continues to sing. Protection of a nest typically depends upon keeping its location as secret as possible from predators; singing on the nest seems counterintuitive. Edward Forbush watched a male sing while on the nest: “When a hawk flew overhead he continued to sing, but so reduced the volume of the song that it seemed to come from far away, raising his voice again when the hawk had passed on. Singing on the nest and ventriloquizing are common habits of the male.”

“Grosbeak” means big beak, an adaptation designed to open large seeds. Watch the grosbeaks, finches, cardinals and other large beaked birds as they feed on your sunflower seeds. Adeptly they crack open the hard shell, extract the nutritious meat and drop the casings. Chickadees, titmice, and even Blue Jays, by contrast, take the sunflower seed to a branch, hold it between the feed, and hammer it open with their bills.

However, the adept use of this “big beak” adaptation apparently has to be learned. Bent, in his life history of the Rose-breasted Grosbeak, reports this observation of the male with his adult sized offspring: “The father then started to show it how to break open sunflower seeds. Perching beside his offspring on a branch, he cracked a seed, broke the kernel into pieces, and fed it to the young bird. He then gave it a whole kernel. Next, he pretended to give the fledgling an uncracked whole seed, but held on to it and in due time cracked the seed and fed the young bird. [After a week of this], irritability on the part of the parent, which had been increasing, resulted in his jamming food into the mouth of the young bird, pecking its bill, and driving it away.”

The natural habitat of the Rose-breasted Grosbeak is second-growth woodlands, the borders of swamp and streams, along wood edges and in neglected pastures. In more recent years it has also adapted to human habitation and is not unusual in towns, villages, and suburbs where there is enough suitable trees and bushes for its nesting.

Like so many other birds, the Rose-breasted Grosbeak is not really “one of ours.” It is a tropical species. It arrives in our neighborhood in May. By mid-October, it will be back home in Central America. But during these summer months, it is a welcome resident, delighting the eye and the ear. The Rose-breasted Grosbeak is one of those birds which defines - Good Birding!

Tennessee Warbler, White-winged Crossbills, et al

Yesterday when atlassing for breeding birds, I was serenaded at length by a Tennessee Warbler. This morning atop Mt. Snow, Bicknell's Thrushes were in full voice. Highlight was White-winged Crossbills, feeding and chattering atop the spruces.

TENNESSEE WARBLER
WHITE-WINGED CROSSBILL

BICKNELL'S THRUSH
BLACKPOLL WARBLER
DARK-EYED JUNCO
AMERICAN ROBIN
SCAT (Bear Scat?)

The Welcome Presence of the Evening Grosbeak

When we lived in Pennsylvania, some winters our yard would be visited by greedy feeder thieves who would descend upon the bird feeders in a flock of ten to twenty birds, clean out all the seed from the feeder, then fly on. The attack would be repeated every two or three weeks, until Spring finally returned. Then they would be gone, not to be seen again for another two or three years.

Evening Grosbeaks were irruptive winter birds in my previous home some miles to the south. In spite of the spike they created in the bird feed bill, they were welcome visitors. The male’s gaudy plumage, dominated by bright yellow, was a spark of color against the gray-brown winter landscape. The sudden appearance and equally sudden disappearance of the nomadic flock - the enthusiasm of their voracious appetites - the energy with which the flock seemed to do everything - all helped to chase the winter doldrums.

Evening Grosbeaks visit my Vermont yard only rarely during the winter months, usually early in the winter. Then, I suppose, they roam southward in search of a more temperate climate and more abundant food sources (even though the food stock in my feeders can hardly be called sparse.)

And that’s all right, for their winter absence gives me something to look forward to - that time when the summer resident Evening Grosbeaks return to pair and mate and raise their young in my neighborhood. Nearly every year throughout the summer, at least one pair of these large, bright finches lives nearby. Their regular visits interrupt my work; I just cannot go on doing whatever I am doing when they are there.

For a bird of such stunning beauty, there is surprisingly little folklore attached to it. This is probably due to the fact that when the European colonists were settling the Atlantic coast, the Evening Grosbeak was not present. When first found and described by the early naturalists, the Evening Grosbeak was primarily a bird of the far Northwest, although one of the earliest specimens was collected at Sault Ste. Marie.

When first discovered, the Evening Grosbeak was observed to sing in the evening - hence its name. The observation was wrong; it does not sing only at sundown. Nevertheless, this early observational mistake has persisted in both common name and scientific name.

Scientifically, the Evening Grosbeak has been named (until recently) Hesperiphona vesperina. Hesperiphona refers to the Hesperides, the “Daughters of the Night,” who dwell on the western edge of the world where the sun sets, recalling the western regions where it was first observed. Or perhaps more precisely, as one source suggests, the name comes from the Greek hesperios, “at evening,” and phona,”voice” - hence “evening voice.”

With scientific redundancy, the species name is vesperina, from the Latin meaning “belonging to the evening.”

Scientists have recently reclassified the Evening Grosbeak. It is now Coccothrautus vesperina. It shares its Genus with the Hawfinch of Europe and the Hooded Grosbeak of South America. I have not been able to trace the derivation of the Genus name, but it still “belongs to the evening.”

Since the early nineteenth century when the Evening Grosbeak was first described by science and was known primarily as a bird of the far west, it has been expanding its range eastward. The first record of the bird in southeastern Massachusetts was in March, 1890. In the 1920s, Edward Forbush still did not have much personal experience with the Evening Grosbeak in Massachusetts. In 1940, James Baille found six breeding pairs in New England. The first Vermont Breeding Bird Atlas in 1976, recorded twenty-seven probable or confirmed areas of breeding. The current breeding bird atlas research, which still has one more season to complete, has already recorded ninety-nine probable or confirmed breeding areas in Vermont.

The Evening Grosbeak is a bright and conspicuous bird. Such bright colors are usually associated with tropical birds such as the Baltimore Oriole, Scarlet Tanager, Indigo Bunting, Rose-breasted Grosbeak, and most of the warblers. Parrots are almost entirely tropical or sub-tropical birds; the Evening Grosbeak has sometimes been called the English Parrot, on account of its plumage, big beak, and occasional feeding habits. However, the Evening Grosbeak is anything but a tropical bird. It is a bird of northern and western forests, its range straddling the U.S.-Canadian border. In winter it may range as far south as the Mexican border and Gulf states, but it will also range northwest into the southern Yukon territories. How then does it come to be so colorful?

The answer is found in the Evening Grosbeak’s original homeland in the Northwest. Arthur Bent in his 1968 life history of the western Evening Grosbeak writes that it “is largely a bird of the higher altitudes whose plumage is a blending, a chiaroscuro, of the high-lights and shadows of the great hills.” He cites Enid Michael who wrote from Yosemite in 1926: “The Evening Grosbeak ... furnishes a splendid example of protective coloring in birds. It is brilliantly colored white, yellow, black and olive. It would seem to be one of the most conspicuous of high Sierran birds. Yet its brightest color is almost identical with the lemon color of the lichens found throughout our high Sierra.”

Another writer in 1902 wrote: “While watching the birds on Mt. Shasta one day, I was struck by the conspicuousness of one that flew across an open space. As it lit on a dead stub whose silvery branches were touched with yellow lichen, to my amazement it simply vanished. Its peculiar greenish yellow toned in perfectly with the greenish yellow of the lichen.”

These accounts remind me that when driving our dirt roads in the summer time, I have seen the gravely road in front of me suddenly burst into flight. Evening Grosbeaks, picking up grit and salt, blended into the roadway until my vehicle came to close. Then at the last moment, they flew. (At least, I prefer that explanation for their sudden appearance over the one that has me not paying close attention to what might be on the road ahead of me.)

The Evening Grosbeak is a big, stocky finch with a bearing that makes me think of a pugnacious street fighter. But appearances are deceiving. When food is plentiful, most observers use adjectives like quiet, sedentary, gentle, and unafraid. When unmolested, they can become almost tame. They approach backyard feeders from a high perch, where they check things out before coming in to share freely with others birds.

The Evening Grosbeak will not be found in all of our local neighborhoods. It prefers mature, open-canopy mixed forests, preferably coniferous, or coniferous-deciduous. Fortunately, I live close to such forests which are home to nesting pairs. Even today when I am writing - with dreary skies and drizzly rain - when many of the birds are wet and bedraggled, stressed by weather and nesting and feeding - the Evening Grosbeak comes with his crisp yellow and black and white, and brightens the day. A good bird and good birding!

Early Morning with the Bicknell's Thrush

This morning I had one of my most delightful times atlassing for the Vermont Breeding Bird Atlas. With Richard Foye, I drove to the top of Mt. Snow (with permission/arrangment with the ski area, on their service road) to cover the “inaccessible” areas of the Mt. Snow block. With frost on the ground and freezing hands, we watched the sun rise and listened to the birds wake up - including

BICKNELL'S THRUSH (at least four singing males)


BLACKPOLL WARBLER



AND ... Swainson’s Thrush, Winter Wren, Magnolia Warbler, Yellow-rumped Warbler (carrying nesting material), Chipping Sparrow (sounding like juncos), Dark-eyed Junco (sounding like juncos), Purple Finch (including flight display and flight songs), Common Raven, American Robin, Red-breasted Nuthatch, Yellow-bellied Sapsucker, Ruby-crowned Kinglet, Pine Siskin, Red Crossbill (possible possible)

Almost incidentally, (we had to pay attention to the road - which demanded attention!) we had on the way up and down -
Wild Turkey, Black-and-white Warbler, American Redstart, American Crow, Common Yellowthroat, Ovenbird, Common Grackle, Blackburnian Warbler, Gray Catbird, Song Sparrow, Blue-headed Vireo, (and probably some more that I can’t remember)

... and in the valley, there were -
Barn Swallow, Tree Swallow, Cliff Swallow, Northern Rough-winged Swallow, Killdeer (with young), Canada Goose (with young)

This was between 5:00 am and 8:00 am. Not a bad way to start a day!

Leucistic Goldfinch, Indigo Bunting, New Feeder Birds

Since returning from our travels, I haven't gotten into the field for birding, but the backyard has been great.

A leucistic goldfinch has been a regular visitor.



We've had 3 (maybe 4) Indigo Buntings and at least 2 females for the last week.



Gray Catbirds have been regular diners on our suet. I don't recall seeing them on the feeders before.



Also, a female towhee was on the feeder, another first. Usually they're on the ground when they come to the yard.



Apologies for the fuzzy last photo. These photos are through our not real clean kitchen window using a Sony cybershot DSC-H5 w/12x zoom. For other examples of the photos from this camera, see "Recent Photos" on the sidebar.

Life Birds in a Southern Forest

We were out of bed at ten minutes to five. We brewed the coffee provided by the hotel, filled our mugs, and were on the road by a quarter after. Twenty miles north of Wilmington, North Carolina, was the Holly Shelter Game Preserve. We turned in the dirt road and drove a half mile before parking near an empty camping area.

We listened again to the song of the sparrow - one of two “target” birds - a long clear note followed by a slow musical trill. Then we were out of the car. The air was chilly. The clear sky was orange with the early sun whose light was just touching the top of the pines. We finished our granola bar breakfast, tipped the last drops of coffee out of our travel mugs ... and listened.

A titmouse repeated his courting song - “peeer, peeer, peeer” - robins rattled from many directions. Sunlight moved down the longleaf pines bringing enough warmth to stimulate a Pine Warbler into his even pitched trill. Eastern Towhees called their “che-winks,” and now and then one limbered his vocal cords with a partial song, and abbreviated “drink,” or “drink your” - not quite ready to sing his full “drink your teeeeeea.” We continued to listen to the awakening stir of life in the southern pine savannah.

At 6 am, a long musical note drifted down the road, followed on a different pitch by a rapid trill. “There’s the Bachman’s Sparrow!” We headed down the road. The sparrow continued to sing from the mid-branch of a pine ahead of us, then to our side, then slightly behind us. In a primitive way, we had triangulated his location, and began looking more intently for movement. He did not move, but on a branch about thirty feet up his dark profile showed against the clear, morning sky, quivering as he broadcast his song.

At 6:10am, we watched the uncommon Bachman’s Sparrow - large, long-tailed, plain brown and nondescript. But a sparrow with a song rivaled only by the plaintive “pooor, sam, peabody peabody peabody” of our northern nesting White-throated Sparrow. Bachman’s Sparrow prefers dense habitat where it forages on the ground and is seldom seen. Maybe a glimpse can be had as it runs beneath its cover, or makes a short flight when flushed before disappearing again.

But in the Spring, the males sing from a high perch in the lower branches of a pine, repeating their song over and over and over from the same place. And that was one of the reasons we were in this pine savannah on a cool Spring morning.

The other reason was the Red-cockaded Woodpecker. This rare and endangered species lives in contiguous, open, mature pine forests in the Southeast. Development and lumbering has severely reduced the amount of mature forests available for this woodpecker, or has fragmented the forest that remains. As a result, this woodpecker is in trouble.

The good news for a birder is that the Red-cockaded Woodpecker is a colonial nester. Where there is one nesting pair, there are likely to be others. Kaufman describes their nest: “Preferred sites are cavities excavated in large live pines infected with red heart fungus (which gives tree a soft center inside a solid outer shell). Cavity usually 30-40 feet above ground, can be much lower or higher (to well above 100 feet). Entrance surrounded by tiny holes from which sticky resin oozes out, protecting nest from climbing predators.”

As an endangered species, this colonial nature and these nest characteristics make it relatively easy for biologists to study the Red-cockaded Woodpecker. Also as an endangered species, it is intensely studied. In the Holly Shelter Game Preserve, a nesting colony was situated about a mile in from the highway. Nesting trees were marked with broad, white painted stripes.

I should explain how we came to be in this particular place. In negotiating our Spring vacation along the Atlantic coast, my spouse insisted that we not bird all the time, and that her interest in the Civil War be honored. In turn, I would target our birding to finding these two southern species, Bachman’s Sparrow and Red-cockaded Woodpecker. I studied guides to birding places and had a significant list of places we would visit in search of these species (and which would provide a significant amount of birding on the trip). About a week before we left, I mentioned my target species to Al at an Audubon meeting. A couple of days later he received an e-mail from a friend who had just seen both species. Al forwarded the e-mail to me. The e-mail described “one of the best places to observe the endangered Red-cockaded Woodpecker” and gave precise directions for accessing the game preserve and finding the woodpecker.

And that is how it happened that my first stop for these targeted species was in this game preserve north of Wilmington, North Carolina. We watched the Bachman’s Sparrow for about ten minutes, until something caused him to fly off. Then we turned our attention to searching for the Red-cockaded Woodpecker.

In addition to nesting colonially, this woodpecker often forages with its family and neighbors. We had stopped during the late afternoon the day before, but had seen and heard very little beyond the ubiquitous song of the towhee. But in the early morning, the birds are active and often feed together. So we began to prowl slowly and quietly in the vicinity of the marked nesting trees. We were looking for a woodpecker midway in size between a Downy and a Hairy, with a stout beak like a Hairy, a prominent white cheek, otherwise entirely black with white spots, and an invisible red “cockade” back of the male’s eye.

Southern pine savannah is open forest with trees widely spaced and little undergrowth. We could search for movement across wide areas. We scanned and watched and listened. With binoculars on her eyes, my spouse said, “There it is.” I followed her line of sight to a plain woodpecker with a white cheek on the side of a pine. It was 7 am, and we had just seen our second life bird for the day. Others in the family group were stirring to activity and we had long and satisfying views of this endangered bird.

It was early and so we turned our attention to the other bird life coming alive - a Common Nighthawk peenting overhead, doing his aerial display by diving steeply then pulling up with a booming sound. A Long-eared Owl called distantly. Pine Warblers and Prairie Warblers singing from trees tops and thickets. A Summer Tanager, bright red, led us through the oaks, scolding with his “pikituck.” Brown-headed Nuthatches worked the tree trunks. Always the towhees were singing and the Carolina Chickadees calling.

By 9 am, this first day of May was beginning to feel like a mid-summer day. We shed clothing, rearranged the car, and resumed our travels. We had had a full day of very good birding.

Quotation from Kenn Kaufman, “Lives of North American Birds,” 1996.