"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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"Peter! Peter! Peter!"

After easing in like the meekest of lambs, March assumed a decidedly leonine nature a few days into the month. The almost freakishly warm weather we had for the closing days of February that took away much of the snow that hit around Valentine's Day, was replaced by days that started out with temps in the single digits and did not warm beyond the mid-teens. As I walked out to the end of the drive to retrieve our newspaper on the coldest of these mornings I was cheered, but not really surprised, to hear the sounds of "Peter! Peter! Peter!"¹ coming from the tangles of honeysuckle and bittersweet that fill the area between our driveway and the private road that parallels it. It was the song of a Tufted Titmouse, a somewhat larger cousin of the Black-capped Chickadee, our Maine state bird.

Titmice are always among the first birds to begin singing in the run-up to Spring. This was not even the first time I'd heard one this year. That had happened nearly a month earlier--on February 10, to be precise. On that occasion I was out shoveling newly-fallen snow from the network of paths that connect our several bird feeders in the yard on the side of the house. There was still some snow drifting down. I soon worked up a bit of a sweat--this had been a wet, heavy snowfall--and stopped to rest for a couple of minutes. As I leaned on my shovel, trying to catch my breath, I was delighted to be serenaded by the sweet sounds of a Titmouse, Petering away in the woods. That time I was surprised, as this was the earliest I'd ever heard one. My previous first-of-year (FOY) record of a song had been February 16, 2011, the date on which I recorded the sound file in the above link.

Titmice are ubiquitous, year-round denizens of our yard and the woods that surround our house here in southern Maine. Along with Chickadees, Mourning Doves, Blue Jays, Downy & Hairy Woodpeckers, White-breasted Nuthatches, and Goldfinches, they're one of the species of birds we can almost always count on seeing whenever we look outside, regardless of the time of year.² They're handsome, endearing little critters. With their round, black eyes, short beaks, rusty-orange flanks, and prominent crests, they can only be described as "perky." They are frequent patrons of our feeders. Like Chickadees, they customarily select a single seed with each visit to the feeder, and fly off with it to a nearby branch where they crack it open and eat the nutmeat. They then make a return trip and begin the process all over again. Rinse, repeat. They are perhaps a bit more suspicious of human presence than are Chickadees, but in general they seem quite comfortable sharing habitat with us large, invasive bipeds. And we are certainly happy to have them do so!

As common as Titmice are here now it's sometimes hard to remember that things were not always this way; they are a relatively recent addition to the avian biota in Maine. And in the rest of New England, for that matter. They were seen only rarely, if at all, in western Massachusetts when I was growing up in the 1950s and '60s. It was not until I moved to Tennessee in 1985 that I became acquainted with them.

They are absent from early 20th century books on birds in Maine. Olive Thorne Miller makes no mention of them in With the Birds in Maine (1904), nor does Bates College student Carrie Ella Miller in her Birds of Lewiston-Auburn and Vicinity (1918).³

If we turn to the work of other early ornithologists we can track the northward creep of the Tufted Titmouse. Edward Howe Forbush somewhat hesitantly gives them an entry in the third volume of Birds of Massachusetts and other New England States (1929). He characterizes them as a "very rare or casual visitor," and a "mere straggler in New England." In those bad old days when ornithologists insisted on having a "taken" specimen in hand, rather than a mere "sight record" to establish a bird's residency in a given area, Forbush explains that he has "not listed it as a Massachusetts bird because although several sight records have been given me we have no record of a specimen taken in the state."

He confesses that he'd never had a good opportunity to observe Titmice himself, so we are not treated to any of the lovely descriptive prose that enriches so many of his first-hand species accounts. Rather, he relies on the words of others, from other states, to supply notes about nesting and feeding habits. But Forbush goes on to indulge in a bit of prognostication: "I predict that it will be taken and listed eventually in every New England state, as these states are not very far from its normal range and individuals are prone to wander more or less." (vol. 3, pp. 365-366)  He notes only one confirmed specimen from Maine, taken possibly in 1890, near Orono.

"Crested Titmouse," John James Audubon

Similarly, Mabel Osgood Wright, in the 1936 edition of Birdcraft, comments that "The Tufted Titmouse is quite rare here [i.e. southern Connecticut, where she lived], but is a summer, and perhaps, winter resident in southern New York." In the 1947 edition of Field Guide to the Birds, Roger Tory Peterson gives northern New Jersey as the northernmost limit of the Titmouse's range. By the time of his 1980 revision, he included a range map (Map #249) that indicated Titmice had moved northward to occupy territory through all of Massachusetts, as well as southern Vermont and New Hampshire, and had even crept into southern York County in Maine. In a note on the map Peterson says that the bird is "Expanding range north (helped by feeders)."

In a study published in 1999, Colby College ornithologist W. Herbert Wilson found that Titmice had begun to establish nesting and breeding populations in Maine as far north as Waterville. By now they are common in many parts of the state, though perhaps not yet in the far northern reaches. They are beginning to move across the Canadian border into the Maritimes, but are still considered rare in New Brunswick. A birding friend in Halifax rues the fact that they have not yet gotten across the Bay of Fundy to Nova Scotia.

Titmice are just one of several bird species that are now common around us but whose residence this far north is a relatively recent development. Seeing a Northern Cardinal at our farm in western Massachusetts was an exceedingly rare treat when I was growing up, much to my father's dismay; they were one of his favorite birds. Now a pair frequently visits our place in Maine, though they are not as omnipresent as some of the other species I mentioned.

I'd never even heard of, much less seen, a Red-bellied Woodpecker until I moved to Tennessee. They are another species that was regarded as an "accidental" in Forbush's day and was termed "casual" in New England by Arthur Cleveland Bent in his Life Histories of North American Woodpeckers (1939). They are also another species that Peterson, in his 1980 edition, noted was expanding its range north. Now we have a pair around much of the time. In the summer of 2015 I located a nesting site in our woods. Later on that year we were tickled to have a couple of young ones show up at the house in company with their parents. Maine Audubon naturalist Doug Hitchcox has written about the expansion of their range into Maine and presents data from eBird to show where they are now occurring in our state.

So what is behind this gradual, but persistent, northward movement of our friend the Tufted Titmouse, the Red-bellied Woodpecker, and other species? We have seen that this trend has been going on for quite some time--recall Forbush's prediction in 1929 that Titmice would eventually take up residence throughout New England, and Peterson's 1980 comments about backyard feeding contributing to range expansion. Most current commentators, however, point to global climate change as a major factor. Whether or not this has been at work since the early 20th century and is only now being recognized as a force is not something I'm qualified to comment on.

If this is the case, we should perhaps look at the presence of new species in our neck of the world as something of a silver lining in the cloud of man-made climate change. As I write, the thermometer reads 12° F and there's a nasty wind gusting. Numerous Tufted Titmice are busy at the feeder outside my office window, competing for food with a larger group of Chickadees. Whatever factors brought them here, I am delighted with their presence! I must go now and refill the feeders.

¹ Sound file recorded February 16, 2011. This is actually a conversation between at least three individuals. 
² Titmice are such a commonplace around the house that apparently I've never exerted myself to get any photos of them! In the absence of any original images I use as the lead illustration for this post the Titmouse card from the Seventh Series of  "Useful Birds of America," issued in 1918 by the Church & Dwight company, makers of Arm & Hammer and Church brand baking sodas. This was one of ten series of trade/trading cards issued by the firm over the course of many years. Numerous other companies issued similar series of cards as part of a movement to educate people about the importance of birds. The Church & Dwight cards carry the slogan "For the good of all, do not destroy the birds." These cards will be the subject of a future post, or perhaps multiple posts. The painting of the Titmouse was done by Mary Emily Eaton, a British artist who lived in the U.S. from 1911-1932, and who was better known for her botanical illustrations. She did all the paintings for the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh series for Church & Dwight..
³ I am unaware of any familial relationship between the two women.

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..."

Birder's Bookshelf 1: Joseph Kastner, "A Species of Eternity"

With this post I begin a series of reviews--though perhaps "discussions" would be a more apt term--of books from my personal library, books that I have found to be particularly influential, useful, or simply interesting. Don't look here for reviews of the latest and greatest new field guides, though that might happen at some point. Most of the works that I will be writing about will either be old, out-of-print books about birds (mostly), or newer ones that deal in some way with the history of ornithology, bird painting, and of humans' relationship with birds. I begin with a book not specifically about birds, but one that had an enormous impact on me when I read it (c. 1982). I will follow up this post with a look at a related work (that is just on birds) by the same author, Joseph Kastner, a long-time writer and editor at Life magazine. Both Kastner books played a big role in sparking the interest that led to the acquisition of many of the other books that I will be writing about.
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Joseph Kastner. A Species of Eternity. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1977.

It would be overly dramatic, but not entirely inaccurate, to say that this book changed the course of my life. It certainly sent me down paths that I had not previously traveled and started me on a journey that continues today, more than thirty years after I read it.

Kastner's book is a chronicle of the lives, work, and adventures of the men--and they were all men--from the Colonial Era to roughly the middle of the 19th century who laid the groundwork for the study of natural history in North America. It was a colorful cast of characters -- some rich, some poor; some with extensive formal education, others entirely self-taught; some eccentric and flamboyant, some staid and introverted; some working within the structure of an institution, others pursing their interests on their own. All were blessed (cursed?) with passionate curiosity about the natural world and had the drive to probe its mysteries.

Painter and ornithologist John James Audubon is the only one among them whose name is likely to be familiar to most people today, but the cohort included many others: Mark Catesby, an Englishman who made some of the earliest depictions of American flora and fauna; the Bartrams, John and William, a father-and-son pair known best for their contributions to the study of botany; Charles Willson Peale, painter, naturalist, and father not only to one of the first museums in America but also to a large family that included several more painters and naturalists; Alexander Wilson, a Scottish immigrant who is regarded as "the father of American ornithology" and whose own monumental collection of bird paintings preceded Audubon's by just a few years but has been forever overshadowed by it; and on and on. Their stories are invariably fascinating and Kastner relates them in engaging, eminently readable prose.

As noted in an earlier post, my own interest in the natural world extends back to my childhood growing up on a farm. Even as a youngster I had often wondered about how the plants and animals that I saw around me, and read about in guide books, had come to be named, and who had first identified them. A Species of Eternity opened the door to the world and work of those who began the task of making sense of the complexities of the natural world, those who charted the previously uncharted. How strange and wonderful and overwhelming it must have been to live at a time when so much about the world around us was unknown, when there were no books to tell people what they were seeing.

As eye-opening and fascinating as it was to read about the adventures and contributions of Catesby, Alexander Garden, Cadwallader Colden, Constantine Rafinesque, et al, what really hooked me in to wanting to find out more about some of these characters was learning that both Alexander Wilson and John James Audubon were musicians! Aha -- a link between the two worlds that I love the most! Sweet.

Audubon played fiddle and flute, and also worked as a dancing master for a time before he began work on Birds of America, his magnum opus. Through subsequent reading of his published journals I learned that he often played with local musicians on his travels--which encompassed a huge swath of territory, from New Orleans to Labrador. We know less about Wilson's musical activities. Kastner quotes a letter Wilson wrote to William Bartram in 1803 in which he says: "I have had many pursuits, Mathematics, the German language, music, drawing, etc..." (p. 163). Audubon himself gives us a glimpse into Wilson as a musician. The two men met only one time during their lives, in 1807 when the Scotsman happened to stop into the store near Louisville, Kentucky, that Audubon ran for a time. Audubon wrote of Wilson: "His retired habits exhibited a strong discontent or a decided melancholy," and further, "The Scotch airs that he played sweetly on his flute made me melancholy too." (p. 178). I will write more about both Audubon and Wilson, and what is known of their musical activities, in future posts.

The door that Joseph Kastner opened for me with A Species of Eternity has never closed. In the three decades since reading it I have continued my explorations into the history of natural history (as it were), with a focus on the development of ornithology and the activity of bird-watching. A second book by Kastner, A World of Watchers, that deals specifically with the history of (as the jacket blurb puts it) the "history of the American passion for birds," fed this interest. It introduced me to the literature of many early writers about birds and, as noted earlier, was in large measure responsible for me seeking out and acquiring many of the well-worn volumes that crowd the bookshelves in our living room. It, and the books it inspired me to collect, will be the subjects of future posts.