"The Bluebird carries the sky on his back" -- Henry David Thoreau

As I sat down to compose this post and confronted the unenviable, but necessary, business of coming up with a suitable opening sentence, the first idea that popped into my head was: "Who doesn't love Bluebirds?" Then, as is my wont, I consulted the writing of Edward Howe Forbush to see how he handled the task. I was gratified, and not altogether surprised, to see that he begins his entry on the Bluebird in Birds of Massachusetts (vol. 3, 1929) with the sentence: "Who does not welcome the beloved Bluebird and all that his coming implies?" I was even more pleased to read his lede for the entry on Bluebirds in his earlier work, Useful Birds and Their Protection (1907): "The Bluebird is perhaps the first of all birds in the affections of the rural population of New England." Most welcome affirmation of my own thoughts!

Confirmation that Forbush was on target in these assessments of widespread fondness for Sialia sialis can easily be seen in the writings of other ornithologists, as well as in the work of poets, songwriters, painters, and photographers. Their affection is manifest in the loving, often exuberant words, images, and music that Bluebirds inspire.

John James Audubon wrote of the Bluebird: Full of innocent vivacity, warbling its ever pleasing notes, and familiar as any bird can be in its natural freedom, it is one of the most agreeable of our feathered favourites. The pure azure of its mantle, and the beautiful glow of its breast, render it conspicuous, as it flits through the orchards and gardens, crosses the fields or meadows, or hops along by the road-side. 

Later in the 19th century, naturalist John Burroughs was equally fulsome: When Nature made the bluebird, she wished to propitiate both the sky and the earth, so she gave him the color of one on his back and the hue of the other on his breast, and ordained that his appearance in spring should denote that the strife and war between these two elements was at an end. (p. 61)

Thoreau conveyed much the same sentiment in fewer words in the line that serves as the title of this post: the Bluebird carries the sky on his back.

In addition to their prose writings about Bluebirds, both Thoreau and Burroughs were inspired to turn their hands to poetry in praise of the lovely creatures. Poets Emily Dickinson and Robert Frost are also among those who put their reflections about Bluebirds into verse. Bluebirds feature strongly in a couple of my long-time favorite country songs: "I Heard the Bluebirds Sing," and "The Bluebirds are Singing for Me."  Pre-WWII blues artist Sonny Boy Williamson had a good record in 1937 with "Bluebird Blues"--issued on Bluebird records, no less. Buffalo Springfield, the influential 1960s rock group that was the launching pad for the careers of numerous performers, had a bit of a hit with the largely allegorical song, "Bluebird," written by band member Stephen Stills. There are more.

So, to answer my own question--in a grammatically torturous way--it seems that nobody doesn't love Bluebirds. 

For one reason or another I have not been fortunate enough to have had bluebirds as a regular part of the avifauna in most of the places where I've lived. My recollection from growing up in western Massachusetts is that Bluebirds were fairly common around the farm when I was quite young (i.e. in the late 1950s), and then they weren't; they became very rare visitors. My bird-loving father attributed the decline of Bluebirds to the increasing population of European Starlings, a species introduced to this country in the late 19th century, and the ensuing competition for cavity nesting sites. Contemporary ornithologists confirm his belief that Starlings were the bad guys in the scenario, though the problem arose before I was born. Fortunately, programs that began in the 1960s to distribute Bluebird-friendly nesting boxes have been quite successful in reversing the population decline. (Alas, my father was always frustrated in his own efforts to attract Bluebirds to the farm, because Tree Swallows invariably took over any nesting boxes that he put out. Not that that's a bad thing in and of itself.)

In any case, I am pleased to report that here in southern Maine in the 21st century, people are now enjoying the benefits of these recovery efforts. I was utterly delighted when a pair of Bluebirds showed up at my suet feeders one cold, snowy day in February, 2019. An unprecedented occurrence! Bluebirds like a lot of open space and, although we have a sizable front yard, I'd always assumed that it was not quite large enough to appeal to them. Apparently not. They hung around throughout that winter, and when Spring came they set up housekeeping in the one nesting box that I had put out in the yard. They have been a more-or-less permanent, year-round presence around the place ever since. 

The new visitors hatched out one brood that year, but then got caught up in some turf battles with a pair of pugnacious House Wrens--Starlings and Tree Swallows aren't the only other birds that compete with Bluebirds for good nesting spots. At some point the wrens wrested control of the house from the Bluebirds and proceeded to fill it with sticks, as is their wont. They also produced one brood of their own. Once I was satisfied that all the young wrens had fledged, I cleaned out the jumble of sticks that passes for a nest in Wrenworld, and the Bluebirds soon re-asserted their rights to the house. They even re-built their own nest (see photo below) and raised a second brood that summer.

Squabbles between House Wrens and Bluebirds have been going on since before European Starlings entered the picture. Audubon said of the House Wren: "it makes war on the Martin, the Blue Bird, and the House Swallow, the nest of any of which it does not scruple to appropriate to itself, whenever the occasion offers." Forbush reported: "There is always a feud between Bluebirds and House Wrens, especially when they wish to occupy the same nesting boxes or are domiciled near each other." (1929, p. 420) My father's experience with Tree Swallows taking over houses he'd intended for Bluebirds was certainly not unique. John Burroughs observed: “The bluebirds, when they build about the farm buildings, sometimes come in conflict with the swallows.” (p. 68)

We can add English Sparrows, another introduced species, to the list of those who can make it tough for Bluebirds to find suitable nesting spots. Pictured above are two editions of the Bluebird trading card issued by Church & Dwight, makers of Arm & Hammer baking soda. The text on the card on the left includes a comment that English Sparrows are the "enemy" of the Bluebird, and the surprising recommendation that killing Sparrows was "the best encouragement to the permanent settlement of Bluebirds." This seems an unduly harsh solution, especially given that the purpose of the cards was to discourage such things--"For the good of all, do not destroy the birds." The text was amended for the later card on the right.

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Not only are Bluebirds more numerous than they were a few decades ago, but they are among the species whose migratory patterns have changed during my lifetime. A recurring theme with many of the writers whose work I've consulted is that Bluebirds, along with Robins, have been seen as traditional harbingers of Spring in New England and elsewhere in the north. Turning again to John Burroughs (probably writing from his home in the Hudson Valley of NY, north of Poughkeepsie): “In New York and in New England the sap starts up in the sugar maple the very day the bluebird arrives, and sugar-making begins forthwith.” (p. 62)  And again--in one of his most lyrical passages: “It is sure to be a bright March morning when you first hear his note: and it is as if the milder influences up above had found a voice and let a word fall upon your ear, so tender is it and so prophetic, a hope tinged with regret.” (p. 61)

Well, sorry John, but things have changed a bit since you penned those lines. As I write in early March, 2022, Bluebirds have been in my yard here in southern Maine throughout the winter, and the sugaring season has only just gotten underway. In fairness, very few species have begun their seasonal singing and, as far as I'm aware, Bluebirds are not among them; it may yet be a "bright March morning" when we first hear one. Even if he is not newly-arrived in the neighborhood. 

As far as I'm concerned, losing whatever buzz might be generated by seeing "the first Bluebird of Spring" with "all that his coming implies" in exchange for having some around all through the snows of January and February, is a trade-off I'm more than happy to make. Let's face it--as much as we love our Chickadees, Titmice, Juncos, small woodpeckers, and Nuthatches, they don't exactly brighten up the landscape. But seeing flashes of blue through falling snow on a gray, dreary, January day can do wonders for one's spirits. Because Bluebirds molt in Autumn, the males' plumage is at its best during the winter months. With all due respect to Mr. Thoreau, their hue in winter is not a sky-blue azure, but, rather a deep, almost metallic, cobalt blue. And, in the right light, their rusty-orange breasts seem almost to glow. From our breakfast table we have a view into the yard on the side of the house where we have our bird feeders. Many's the time I've looked up from the morning crossword and been rewarded with the sight of a handsome male Bluebird or two, perched in the branches of one of our oaks; a welcome splash of color in an otherwise drab vista. It invariably puts a smile on my face. 

It is not for their beauty alone that we humans hold Bluebirds in high regard. Their penchant for eating worms and insects that damage crops or are otherwise considered to be pests, earns them high marks with farmers. Bluebirds' predisposition for consuming large quantities of noxious small critters has long been recognized and celebrated. Alexander Wilson, in his magnum opus, American Ornithology (1808-1814) noted: "His society is courted by the inhabitants of the country; and few farmers neglect to provide for him, in some suitable place, a snug little summer-house, ready-fitted and rent-free. For this he more than sufficiently repays them by the cheerfulness of his song, and the multitude of injurious insects which he daily destroys."

Wilson also provided a charming account of parental tutelage in the art of bug-hunting: "The Bluebird, in summer and fall, is fond of frequenting open pasture-fields; and there, perching on the stalks of the great mullein, to look out for passing insects. A whole family of them are often seen thus situated, as if receiving lessons in dexterity from their more expert parents, who can espy a beetle crawling among the grass at a considerable distance; and after feeding on it, instantly resume their former position."

Modern Bluebird fanciers--like me--who want to encourage them to stay around have taken to buying dried mealworms (the larval form of darkling beetles) to appeal to their insectivorous nature; the worms serve to supplement the food that the birds can forage on their own. In my case this has been a great success. Every morning the Bluebirds hang around our feeder area, waiting for me to come out and give them their daily ration (about 1/2 cup) of worms. Not surprisingly, Bluebirds aren't the only ones who take advantage of my largesse; they often have to contend with Juncos, Robins, Blue Jays, and sometimes even Crows, for space at the breakfast counter. If you had told me 20 years ago that I would some day be buying bugs for birds...! The damn things aren't exactly cheap--a big bag like the one in the photo runs about 40 bucks at my local feed store. As much as my father loved Bluebirds, I really have to wonder what he, old Yankee farmer that he was, would think about me spending good money on dead bugs! Well, it matters not; I consider it money well spent. And, at half a cup per day, that bag will last a good, long while.

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A few months back I queried my cousins who now own the family farm about the current presence of Bluebirds there. "Oh! Do we have Bluebirds!" was the immediate, enthusiastic response. My father would be thrilled! I only wish he were still alive to be able to enjoy them.

Both beautiful and beneficial, there are few more desirable birds to have around yard or farm than the Bluebird. I remain as delighted as I was when some first showed up that they have chosen to stick around and grace my little corner of the world.

After all, who doesn't love Bluebirds? Well, maybe not House Wrens and Starlings...

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Bluebird lovers might want to familiarize themselves with the work of the North American Bluebird Society, an organization dedicated to Bluebird conservation. On the state level there is also the Ohio Bluebird Society. No doubt there are similar organizations in other states. The quotes from John Burroughs come from his piece, "The Bluebird," published in The Birds of John Burroughs: Keeping a Sharp Lookout, New York: Hawthorn Books, 1976, pp. 61-73. The full text of a different piece about Bluebirds by Burroughs is available online. Audubon's description of the Blue-bird was published in his Ornithological Biography. The excerpt containing the bit that I quote that can be found online, as can Alexander Wilson's entry on the Bluebird from his magnum opus, American Ornithology. See also Wilson's poem,"The Blue-Bird." The quote from Thoreau that serves as the title of this post is from his journal entry of April 3, 1852. It can be found in Thoreau on Birds, ed. Francis H. Allen, Boston: Beacon Press, 1910; reprint edition 1993, p. 449. The Forbush quotes come from his 1907 work, Useful Birds and Their Protection, and Birds of Massachusetts and Other New England States, 3 volumes, 1925-1929.

Good, helpful article about maintaining Bluebird nesting boxes: "To Clean or Not to Clean Your Nest Box."

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Turkeys!

Tom in full display on the Natchez Trace in Tennessee, 2010.

Turkeys! Love 'em or hate 'em, they're now very much a part of the biota here in New England, and in many other parts of the country as well. As I write on a chilly, 20-something morning the day before Thanksgiving, Turkeys have been a more-or-less constant presence in my yard. A flock of seventeen cruised through early on, making the rounds of my bird feeders, scratching the ground underneath in search of seed that the Chickadees, Juncos, Nuthatches, et al have scattered. They were followed an hour or so later by a group of seven. The second bunch may have found slim pickings, but they're all looking pretty plump these days.

Things weren't always this way, of course. The comeback of Wild Turkeys is one of the big success stories of 20th century wildlife management. I clearly remember when I saw my first one. In the spring and summer of 1972 I worked  for a farm supply company based in Greenfield, MA, driving a small truck applying liquid fertilizer to farms in the region. I covered a lot of ground. One day when I happened to be driving on Route 9 through my hometown in Hampshire County, a large, brown bird came out of the woods on my right and flew across the road right in front of me. After a few nanoseconds of disbelief, I recognized it for what it had to be--a Wild Turkey. Not only was I astonished merely to see one--at that point I'd heard nothing about any restoration programs--but also to see a bird that bulky, flying with such apparent ease well above the surface of the road.

When I told people what I had seen they greeted my story with a combination of skepticism and the sort of pitying looks that let me know they thought I was nuts. No matter...within a few years Turkey sightings in Western Massachusetts had become relatively commonplace. By 1980 the population was deemed healthy enough that the state instituted a spring hunting season.

Nevertheless, it was still something of a treat in the early 1980s to see a few. One summer, probably in 1984 or '85, when I was doing some tractor work in the big field above the barn on the family farm, a small flock of Turkeys appeared in the pasture across the brook that runs through the property. I stopped the tractor, got off, and tried to get a closer look at the birds. Not surprisingly, my approach spooked them; they took off and flew into the neighbor's cornfield. When I clambered over the stone wall between the two fields to look for them I had a major "Aha!" moment, as the meaning of the phrase from the old song,  "He was long gone, like a turkey through the corn," suddenly became abundantly clear to me. I had not a chance of seeing them again!

Although the idea that the Pilgrims and native Wampanoags dined on Wild Turkey at the harvest celebration held in Plymouth in 1621 that has become mythologized as "the first Thanksgiving" is just one element of the extensive body of apocrypha surrounding the event, Turkeys did function as an important food source in the early days of English colonization. So important that our forefathers seem to have done their best to wipe them out through over-hunting. No surprise there. As early as 1672 English traveler and writer John Josselyn wrote that "'tis very rare to meet with a wild Turkie in the woods." By the end of the 18th century Turkeys were all but gone from most parts of Massachusetts and elsewhere in the Northeast. Edward Howe Forbush does not include an entry on them in his Birds of Massachusetts (1925-1929), but gives a comprehensive survey of their history and decline in the section on "Species Extinct or Extirpated," in his 1912 work, A History of the Game Birds, Wild-Fowl and Shore Birds of Massachusetts and Adjacent States (which is my source of the Josselyn quote).

Turkey in the Maine snow.

John James Audubon, writing in the 1830s or 1840s, also speaks of their relative rarity in the Northeast. "In the course of my rambles through Long Island, the State of New York, and the country around the Lakes, I did not meet with a single individual, although I was informed that some exist in those parts....Farther eastward, I do not think they are now to be found." He noted, however, that regions to the south and west, including parts of Tennessee, Alabama, Arkansas, Ohio, Kentucky, and elsewhere, "are...most abundantly supplied with this magnificent bird."

Audubon's admiration for Turkeys is reflected in the fact that he included not one, but two, renderings of them--one of a female with chicks and one of a Tom--in his Birds of America, the only species that he so honored. He further demonstrated his esteem for the bird by granting his portrait of the Tom pride of place as the first plate in BoA.

 

It is regrettable that because Turkeys were not part of the active avifauna in Massachusetts at the time Forbush wrote his book on birds of the Bay State, we have no painting by Louis Agassiz Fuertes to go along with all the other wonderful ones he did for Forbush's volumes.

Historical inaccuracy notwithstanding, Turkeys are, of course, now an essential part of Americans' Thanksgiving celebrations. I'll no doubt consume my fair share in tomorrow's feast. I'll confess that I've never eaten Wild Turkey; I've heard from various folks who have that it leaves something to be desired. So the Turkeys who hang out in my yard have no need to fear that they might end up in our oven, though these guys are taking no chances:

"Hello, we must be going..."

An Appreciation of Swallows...and of Edward Howe Forbush

Tree Swallow, West Kennebunk, ME

One day late in the summer of 1984 I was mowing a nice crop of rowen in the upper part of the big field that we called the Drake Lot, on the family farm in western Massachusetts. It was a gorgeous, damn-near perfect August day; sunny, with a few white puffy clouds in an otherwise clear blue sky, temperature in the mid-70s, just a bit of a breeze blowing. The air was crisp and dry; I knew that the grass I was cutting would be ready for raking and baling by the next afternoon. It was the kind of day when riding a tractor for a several hours was as pleasant an activity as anything else I might have been doing.

After I'd been around the field three or four times I was delighted to find myself accompanied by a sizable flock of swallows. They were constantly in motion, swooping and diving gracefully as they feasted on the insects that the mower was stirring up. Birds would come in low over the field behind me, flying swiftly over the swath I'd just cut. They'd snatch up a few morsels as the grass fell, go into a vertical climb over the mower, bank sharply to the right or left, then loop back to make another circuit. Others would come in from the sides, or the front, sweeping as many bugs as they could into their open mouths as they flew. With all the activity it was impossible to get anything approaching a precise count but there were at least a couple of dozen birds following me. Their numbers swelled with each successive lap I made around the field.

Their aerial acrobatics were such a joy to watch that it was all I could do to keep my mind on the mowing. The grace, speed, and precision of their flight was enthralling. George Lucas and his cohorts must have had the flight of swallows in mind when they developed some of the maneuvers of the tie fighters and other small spacecraft in the battle scenes of the Star Wars movies.

As the multitude of birds around me grew, I started to pay more attention to just what kinds of swallows they were. The familiar Barn Swallows, with their blue backs, reddish-orange bellies, and long forked tails, were much in evidence. They were equaled or perhaps surpassed in number by Tree Swallows, whose iridescent gunmetal blue-green backs and pristine white undersides flashed brilliantly in the afternoon sun.

I eventually realized, however, that there were a couple of other, much less-familiar species in the mix. Some had brown backs, and white bellies similar to the Tree Swallows but with brown bands across their upper chests. Their tails had a bit of a fork in them, though nowhere near as pronounced as those of the Barn Swallows. Others had coloration somewhat similar to Barn Swallows but were chunkier, and lacked the classic forked "swallowtail." I scratched my head about these two and resigned myself to having to look them up when I got back to the house for dinner.

Upon reaching home I turned to one of the few bird books I owned at the time: A Natural History of American Birds of Eastern and Central North America. This is essentially an abridged version of Edward Howe Forbush's monumental three volume work, Birds of Massachusetts and other New England States (1925-1929). I quickly learned that the brown birds with the chest stripes were Bank Swallows, a species I knew about but had seen only rarely. Cool. Even cooler was learning that the more colorful ones were Cliff Swallows, a species that was entirely new to me. I had not yet begun keeping a life list at this time but it was still a great treat to have spotted, and learned about, a new bird.

The real joy of doing this bit of research, however, came when I turned to Forbush's description of the Barn Swallow: 
No bird in North America is better known or more truly the friend and companion of man than the swift and graceful Barn Swallow. It nests within his buildings, and with a flight that seems the very 'poetry of motion' it follows the cattle afield or swoops about the house dog as he rushes through the tall grass, and gathers up the flying insects disturbed by his clumsy progress. When the mowing machine takes the field, there is a continual rush of flashing wings over the rattling cutter-bar just where the grass is trembling to its fall. The Barn Swallow delights to follow everybody and everything that stirs up flying insects--even the rush and roar of the modern juggernaut, the motor-car, has no terrors for it.

Wow. It was as if he'd not only been riding along with me on the tractor as I mowed, but had crawled inside my head and described what I'd been seeing. It was more than a little spooky to read something that I felt as if I could have written myself...though Forbush said it better than I could have.

Although I'd been familiar with Forbush's work for some time, up until that afternoon I had not fully appreciated what a fine descriptive writer he was. This was far from the last time that I would turn to him for information about some bird or bit of behavior that had aroused my curiosity, and have him describe exactly what it was that I had just seen. In an earlier post I wrote about watching a pair of Pileated Woodpeckers working away on a pine tree near my house. Forbush, writing roughly ninety years earlier, summed up what I saw quite well:
Pileated Woodpeckers are such powerful birds that they can split off large slabs from decaying stumps, strip bushels of bark from dead trees, and chisel out large holes in either sound, dead, or decaying wood. They like to strip the bark from dead pines, spruces, and especially hemlocks. Their size and strength and their long spear-like tongues enable them to penetrate large trees and draw out borers from the very heart of the tree.

Where I live now, on the banks of the Mousam River in southern Maine, I often enjoy the sight of Wood Ducks cruising past on the open stream, or paddling around the boggy backwaters. Again, Forbush's description of watching these striking ducks matches exactly what I have observed myself. He writes with such grace, beauty, and affection that reading his words brings another whole level of enjoyment and appreciation to the experience: 

Male Wood Duck, Murfreesboro, TN

See that mating pair on the dark and shaded flood of a little woodland river; they seem to float as lightly as the drifting leaves. The male glides along proudly, his head ruffled and his crest distended, his scapular feathers raised and lowered at will, while his plumes flash with metallic luster wherever the sun's rays sifting through the foliage intercept his course. She coyly retires; he daintily follows, exhibiting all his graces, the darkling colors of his plumage relieved by the pure white markings of head and breast and the bright reds of feet and bill and large lustrous eye.

Forbush wrote with knowledge and affection in equal measure. I will repeat the quote from Joseph Kastner about Forbush that I included in a previous post: "Going through his volumes is like going along on a long bird walk, getting to know birds through the eyes and ears and feelings of scores of birders--all their perceptions filtered through the mind of one of the finest and most literate ornithologists the country has ever known." Would that I could tag along with him on such a walk.

Forbush, who lived from 1858 to 1929, was writing in and of a New England that has now largely vanished, the New England of family farms, open country, and minimal suburban sprawl. It was a quieter world, a world in which "the rush and roar of the modern juggernaut, the motor-car" had only begun to make incursions. Although my bird-loving, farming father was of a generation after Forbush, he still lived much of his life in this same world.

I came along only at the tail end of this era but it has, in many ways defined me as well, particularly in my relationship with, and love for, birds. I am grateful that I had the opportunity to grow up doing things like mowing hay in the summer while swallows swarmed around me, and fixing fence in the spring when the woods and pastures were filled with the sights and sounds of warblers and other returning migrants, and hauling wood in the fall with flocks of southbound Canada Geese honking overhead. I am grateful also to have had a father who had an interest in, and was knowledgeable about, birds. As I have written previously, my father's copy of volume 3 of Forbush's Birds of Massachusetts was one of the books that set me on the path of my own efforts to learn about birds. These factors combine to give me an attachment to Forbush and his work that I simply do not get from any modern field guide or smartphone birding app.

I intend to write more about Forbush in the future, and examine some of his books, but for now I'll wrap up this post by returning to swallows. Tree Swallows this time. Forbush wrote of them:
In August, thousands of Tree Swallows, with other species, arrive at the seashore, where they roost in the marshes. They scatter about in the daytime, feeding on insects and berries. Their numbers continue to grow by accessions from the interior, until many thousands are gathered along the coast. Sometimes they alight on telegraph wires, covering them for miles, or they may light on the beaches until the sand is black with their hosts.

I experienced this phenomenon first-hand while visiting Plum Island, near Newburyport, Massachusetts, in September of 2012. Tree Swallows filled the air around me--many hundreds more than had accompanied me while I was mowing back in 1984! It was hard to believe that these were birds; it felt more as if I was caught in a swarm of very large insects.

I had my camera with me that day and captured a bit of the experience:

The human world may, indeed, have undergone vast changes between the time Forbush wrote about the late summer gathering of Tree Swallows and the day I found myself in the midst of a virtual cloud of them, but this seasonal behavior of the birds continues. The timelessness of this annual mustering of swallows makes Forbush's description of it equally timeless; his words are just as apt today as they were when he wrote them decades ago. I take comfort in this.

Birder's Bookshelf 2: Joseph Kastner, "A World of Watchers"

Joseph Kastner, A World of Watchers, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1986.

Whereas Kastner's first book, A Species of Eternity, was a broad survey of the development of the study of natural history in North America, A World of Watchers, his second, is a focused look at the history of bird watching.* Chronologically, Watchers picks up more or less where Eternity left off, i.e., in the latter half of the 19th century. Which makes sense. The men whose work was chronicled in the first book laid the broad foundation of knowledge in all the various areas that can be said to comprise the study of natural history. In this book, Kastner writes of the men--and now also some women--who built on this foundation and began to delve deeply into one particular branch of the field, i.e., the study of birds and bird life.

In today's world, bird watching, or birding, is among the most popular forms of outdoor activity. According to one study from 2011, there currently are an estimated 47 million bird watchers over the age of sixteen in the U.S. Birding clubs are numerous; anyone who develops an interest in birds and wants to flock together with similar-minded folks can find a local club without much difficulty.**

Things were not always so, of course. Early avian enthusiasts were, by and large, few and far between, folks who pursued their passion in relative isolation. Kastner tells us (p. 4 and Chapter 3) that the first organized bird club was not established until 1873, when the Nuttall Ornithological Club was founded in Cambridge, Mass. The formal organization was an outgrowth of the activities of two young ornithologists from that city, William Brewster and Henry Henshaw. Other clubs in other areas soon followed, and there was a concomitant growth in the number of bird watchers.

Kastner goes on to provide accounts both of professional ornithologists and amateur enthusiasts who made contributions to the growth of our knowledge about birds. Among the pros to whom Kastner devotes a chapter is one of my personal favorites, Edward Howe Forbush (1858-1929). Forbush was the state ornithologist in his native Massachusetts from 1891 until his death. His magnum opus was the three-volume Birds of Massachusetts, which was published by the Mass. Dept. of Agriculture from 1925-1929.

I mentioned this work in an earlier post, and will write more about Forbush in the future. For now I will just note that Kastner's chapter on Forbush, "A Friend of Bird and Birder," is a marvelous, affectionate portrait of a man who I wish I had known, and had had the opportunity to learn from. Kastner writes: "Going through his volumes is like going along on a long bird walk, getting to know birds through the eyes and ears and feelings of scores of birders--all their perceptions filtered through the mind of one of the finest and most literate ornithologists the country has ever known."

Amen to that. Many's the time I've observed a bird in the field, and noted some particular aspect of its behavior or appearance. Then, upon returning to the house and consulting Forbush, been delighted to find a perfect description of what it was that I had just seen, a description written in prose so lovely that it bordered on the poetic. It was as if he had been looking over my shoulder as I watched and made my own observations.

Apart from his own stellar work, Forbush's Massachusetts volumes are notable for the magnificent paintings by Louis Agassiz Fuertes that illustrate them. Fuertes (1874-1927) was a brilliant artist, the most important bird painter after Audubon, and arguably the best ever. Kastner employs small field sketches by Fuertes as epigraphs at the beginning of each chapter, and includes a special section of color plates with a few samples of Fuertes' paintings. Fuertes' oeuvre was immense; his paintings graced the pages of many other bird books in addition to Forbush's. His story is as much a part of Kastner's narrative as is that of any ornithologist. I intend to devote a future post or two to him. For now I will just include a sample of his work, the small falcons--Kestrel and Merlin--from the Birds of New York, by Elon Howard Eaton.

Kastner writes also of the growth of the conservation movement; of the change from specimen collection to sight records; of numerous eminent pioneer ornithologists such as Elliot Coues, Witmer Stone, Frank Chapman, and Lowell Griscom; of the influential female writers such as Mabel Osgood Wright, Olive Miller, and Neltje Blanchan; and numerous other topics. His own prose is a delight to read. This, coupled with the evident comprehensive research that underlies the writing, makes A World of Watchers a much-valued item on my bookshelves. Like A Species of Eternity, it is also out of print, but copies are easy to come by on the used-book market. Definitely worth looking for.

*Given the importance of various optical devices to birdwatching--note the design of the book's dust jacket--there's probably a bad joke about focusing lurking in there somewhere, but I'll be damned if I can find it.

**Talk about bad jokes...

What kind of birder am I, anyway?

I don't remember a time in my life when I was not interested in birds. I was blessed with having a father who also loved birds, and who encouraged my own curiosity about them. One of my earliest memories of learning about birds is of seeing an unfamiliar one in our back yard one day, showing it to my father, and having him help me find it in a bird book. I was probably about five or six at the time. My parents always put out feeders for the birds so I had long since learned to identify the Chickadees, Nuthatches, Blue Jays, and Downy and Hairy Woodpeckers that hung around the house, but what I saw this day seemed to me to be far more exotic than any of those familiar friends. Of course my father, Francis, knew exactly what it was--a Northern Flicker (though he would not have included the "Northern")--and patiently helped me locate it in one of the few bird books he owned.

This little lesson was important not just because I learned the name of the bird I was seeing, but also because of what it taught me about using books as sources of information. At the time--this would have been c. 1956-57--there were not many bird books in the house. I don't think we even had a copy of the Peterson guide at this point. The bird books that my dad did have were large and bulky. With green covers. The one I remember best was Edward Howe Forbush's Birds of Massachusetts and other New England States, though my dad owned only Volume 3. (He told me once that that was all he could afford.) It was not the Forbush book we looked at to find the picture of the Flicker--that's in Volume 2--but another green-backed tome the name of which I no longer recall. I think it was The Book of Birds, by Gilbert Grosvenor and Alexander Wetmore, published by the National Geographic Society, but I'm not certain of this. [see update below]

In later years I would come to have a great appreciation for Forbush and his writing, especially for his monumental work on Massachusetts birds. Of which I am now the proud owner of a complete set. The magnificent paintings by Louis Agassiz Fuertes that grace this work are also a stunning achievement and another personal favorite in the realm of ornithological literature (broadly speaking). But these are all topics for other days, and other posts.

To get back to my father...he was a farmer who possessed a keen sense of observation and a deep appreciation of the natural world around him. Birds were, of course, a large and integral part of this world. The idea of “going birding”--making a special effort to travel some place just for the sake of seeing something different--would never have occurred to him. Nor would he have taken the time away from the farm to do so. Rather, he enjoyed watching and learning about the birds that he encountered as he went about the business of "farmering,” as he sometimes referred to the way he made his living.

I carried this birds-as-a-part-of-daily-life attitude with me as my own love for and interest in them evolved. There have been times in my life when I've pursued this interest more actively than others, but for the most part I've done so on the fringes of the organized birding community. I was an enthusiastic non-joiner of bird clubs until some musician friends in Tennessee, who are also birders, persuaded me to sign on to the local chapter of the Tennessee Ornithological Society. Participating in a few seasonal counts with those folks was very eye-opening in terms of a) realizing how much I didn’t know and b) how much I could learn from others who shared my passion.

Upon moving to Maine in 2010 I attended a couple of meetings of the local (York County) Audubon Society and soon found myself drafted to serve on the group's board, ultimately sitting as president. There are some extremely knowledgeable bird people in the area and I enjoyed having the chance to learn from them. I even led a few bird walks myself under the auspices of the group. The association with YCAS came to an abrupt and unhappy end in the Spring of 2013 when I found myself on the receiving end of a vitriolic diatribe launched by one of the long-time members of the board, in a case of what the folks in Hollywood and Nashville call "creative differences." Deciding that I would be happier without the aggravation of trying to lead an organization, I resigned my position and went back to birding at my own pace. And am much happier for it.

So, what kind of birder am I?  I’ve never been much of a lister, and do not enjoy the competitive aspects of birding. I do keep a life list but have no real idea how many species are on it. Somewhere in the vicinity of 300 species, I think. No so very many, I suppose, for someone who is on the north side of 60 and has been interested in birds all his life. I get as excited as anyone when I see something new, but I'm not one to drive hundreds of miles just for the sake of tallying one more species in my personal census.

When I was young and first learning about birds, people who maintained an interest in birds were known as "bird watchers," and the activity was known--sometimes derisively--as "bird-watching." Somewhere along the line, in the early 1970s, I think, as more and more people took up the activity and the nature of the hobby changed, it became known as "birding" and people who took part in it became "birders." This was more than a simple semantic shift, as the nature of the activity changed as well. The emphasis shifted from leisurely observation to tallying numbers of species seen, in something of an avian variation of trainspotting. Though I confess to sometimes getting caught up in the numbers game myself, I'm consciously making more of an effort these days to watch, to observe, to learn, and not just concern myself with ticking off species on a checklist. (And I don't do eBird, though I may, at some point, relent.)

I watch for birds constantly, and often unconsciously, whether at home or out and about. I keep at least mental tabs on the avian activity in our yard and get excited when new visitors join the Usual Suspects. (As I type I'm pleased to see that Juncos have re-appeared for the season.) I love working outside around my house because it affords more opportunities to see what birds are present and active. I make frequent forays to favorite birding spots in the area such as the East Point Sanctuary in Biddeford Pool, Wells Reserve at Laudholm, in Wells, Scarborough Marsh in Scarborough, and various properties owned by the Kennebunk Land Trust. Because I travel back and forth to the Boston area with some degree of regularity I often hit other good locations between there and southern Maine. The Parker River National Wildlife Refuge on Plum Island, off Newburyport, Mass., is a favorite destination, as it is for many other birders. I will be writing about ventures to all of these locations in future posts.

I look forward to sharing some of what I see and learn about through this blog--though birds will by no means occupy all my thoughts and space here.

What kind of birder are you?
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Update, March 16, 2017: Yes, it was the Grosvenor/Nat'l Geographic book that my father owned; I have since obtained my own copy. The flicker--called "Yellow-shafted Flicker" in those days (1939)--was painted by Allan Brooks, a fine, Canadian-born painter who completed the plates for Forbush's Birds of Massachusetts after the principal artist, Louis Agassiz Fuertes, was killed in an automobile accident. The image of the Brooks painting of a Flicker is forever etched in my memory: