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New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

BIRD STUDIES WITH A CAMERA

1. Gannet (flying over), Murres, Puffins, and Razorbilled Auks.

BIRD STUDIES WITH A CAMERA
WITH INTRODUCTORY CHAPTERS ON THE OUTFIT AND METHODS OF THE BIRD PHOTOGRAPHER

By FRANK M. CHAPMAN

ASSISTANT CURATOR OF VERTEBRATE ZOÖLOGY IN THE AMERICAN MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY, AND AUTHOR OF HANDBOOK OF BIRDS OF EASTERN NORTH AMERICA, BIRD-LIFE, ETC.

WITH OVER ONE HUNDRED PHOTOGRAPHS FROM NATURE, BY THE AUTHOR

NEW YORK

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

1900

Copyright, 1900,

By FRANK M. CHAPMAN.

All rights reserved.

THIS BOOK

IS DEDICATED TO

MY WIFE,

WHO, BOTH AT HOME AND AFIELD, IS EVER

“MY BEST ASSISTANT.”

You have learnt from the Birds and continue to learn,

Your best benefactors and early instructors.

Frere’s Aristophanes.

PREFACE

The practice of photographing birds in Nature is of too recent origin in this country to permit of its being treated authoritatively. The methods which may be employed are so numerous, the field to be covered so limitless, that many years must elapse before the bird photographer’s outfit will meet his wants, while the constantly varying details which surround his subjects almost prohibit duplication of experience.

But it is these very difficulties which render all the more imperative the necessity of conference among workers in this fascinating and important branch of natural history. The causes of both success and failure should, through the medium of books and journals, be made accessible to all, thereby shortening this experimental stage of the study of birds with a camera, and hastening the day when the nature of the outfit and methods shall have been settled with more or less definiteness.

It is as a contribution toward this end, and as a means of answering the queries of numerous correspondents, that the following pages, embodying the results of my own experiences, are offered. It is sincerely hoped that they may increase the interest in the study of birds in Nature, and at the same time furnish a more profitable and delightful outlet for the hunting instinct than is afforded by the shotgun or rifle.

A large proportion of the Bird Rock pictures and several of those from Pelican Island have appeared in the Century and St. Nicholas respectively, and are here reproduced by the courtesy of the editors of those magazines; others have been previously published in Bird-Lore.

Frank M. Chapman.

American Museum of Natural History,

New York city, March, 1900.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

BIRD STUDIES WITH A CAMERA

WITH INTRODUCTORY CHAPTERS ON THE OUTFIT AND METHODS OF THE BIRD PHOTOGRAPHER

INTRODUCTION

What is Bird Photography?—Bird photography, as I would encourage its practice, does not mean simply photographing birds; it means the use of the camera as an aid in depicting the life histories of birds. A picture of the bird itself is, of course, of the first importance, but any fact in its biography which the camera can be employed to portray is within the province of bird photography.

The Scientific Value of Bird Photography.—There are certain matters, such as a bird’s song, its time of migration, etc., which must be set forth with the pen; there are others, such as its haunts, nesting site, nest, eggs, the appearance and development of its young, where the camera is so far ahead of the pen in its power of graphic representation that it is a waste of time to use the former when circumstances permit the utilization of the latter.

A photograph of a marsh or wood showing the favorite haunts of a species is worth more than pages of description. A picture of a bird’s nesting site conveys a better idea of the situation than words can possibly give, while in place of such vague phrases as “nest of coarse grasses, weed stalks, rootlets, etc., lined with finer materials,” we have a faithful delineation of the nest itself. The shape and pattern of markings of the eggs may also be well shown with the camera, while the appearance of the young at birth, their development, and often the manner in which they are fed, may all be portrayed by the camera with a realism which convinces one of the truthfulness of the result.

By the exercise of much patience and ingenuity we may also photograph the adult bird, showing it at rest or in motion, brooding its eggs or caring for its young. Under favorable conditions such pictures may possess an exactness of detail which makes them perfect representations of the original, giving not alone position and expression, but the arrangement of the feathers, and they then have scientific value unequaled by the best productions of the artist’s brush or pencil.

From the nature of the case, perfection in this branch of bird photography is not always attained; nevertheless, even pictures which are failures from a photographic standpoint may be of interest to the naturalist. They may be lacking in detail and still give pose, thus furnishing models from which drawings containing all structural essentials may be made.

The camera may also supply us with graphic records of the few large colonies of birds yet existing in this country, thereby preserving for all time definite impressions of conditions which are rapidly becoming things of the past.

What an invaluable addition to the history of the Great Auk would be a series of photographs from Funk Island, taken during the period of its existence there!

Of what surpassing interest would be photographs of the former flights of Wild Pigeons, which the younger generations of to-day can with difficulty believe occurred!

The Charm of Bird Photography.—As a onetime sportsman, who yielded to none in his enjoyment of the chase, I can affirm that there is a fascination about the hunting of wild animals with a camera as far ahead of the pleasure to be derived from their pursuit with shotgun or rifle as the sport found in shooting Quail is beyond that of breaking clay “Pigeons”. Continuing the comparison, from a sportsman’s standpoint, hunting with a camera is the highest development of man’s inherent love of the chase.

The killing of a bird with a gun seems little short of murder after one has attempted to capture its image with a lens. The demands on the skill and patience of the bird photographer are endless, and his pleasure is intensified in proportion to the nature of the difficulties to be overcome, and in the event of success it is perpetuated by the infinitely more satisfactory results obtained. He does not rejoice over a bag of mutilated flesh and feathers, but in the possession of a trophy—an eloquent token of his prowess as a hunter, a talisman which holds the power of revivifying the circumstances attending its acquisition.

What mental vision of falling birds can be as potent as the actual picture of living birds in their homes? And how immeasurably one’s memories are brightened by the fact that this is not a picture of what has been but of what is!

The camera thus opens the door to a field of sport previously closed to those who love birds too much to find pleasure in killing them; to whom Bob-White’s ringing whistle does not give rise to murderous speculations as to the number in his family, but to an echo of the season’s joy which his note voices. They therefore have a new incentive to take them out of doors; for however much we love Nature for Nature’s sake, there are few of us whose pleasure in an outing is not intensified by securing some definite, lasting result.

We are not all poets and seers, finding sufficient reward for a hard day’s tramp in a sunset glow or the song of a bird. Enjoy these things as we may, who would not like to perpetuate the one or the other in some tangible form?

And here we have one of the reasons for the collecting of birds and eggs long after the collector’s needs are satisfied. He goes on duplicating and reduplicating merely to appease the almost universal desire to possess any admired although useless object. Once let him appreciate, however, the pleasure of hunting with a camera, the greater skill required, and the infinitely greater value of the results to be obtained, and he will have no further use for gun, climbing irons, and egg drill.

Furthermore, the camera hunter possesses the advantage over the so-called true sportsman, in that all is game that falls to his gun; there is not a bird too small or too tame to be unworthy of his attention; nor are there seasonal restrictions to be observed, nor temptations to break game laws, but every day in the year he is free to go afield, and at all times he may find something to claim his attention.

Finally, there is to be added to the special charm of bird photography the general charm attending the use of the camera. Thousands of people are finding pleasure in the comparatively prosaic employment of photographing houses, bridges, and other patiently immovable objects wholly at the camerist’s mercy. Imagine, then, the far greater enjoyment of successes not only of real value in themselves, but undeniable tributes to one’s skill both as photographer and hunter.

Nor should this introduction be closed without due acknowledgment to the educational value of photography, to its power to widen the scope of our vision, and to increase our appreciation of the beautiful. There is a magic in the lens, the ground glass, and the dark-cloth which transform the commonest object into a thing of rarest interest.

THE OUTFIT AND METHODS OF THE BIRD PHOTOGRAPHER

THE BIRD PHOTOGRAPHER’S OUTFIT

The beginner must not suppose that good bird photographs can be made only with expensive apparatus. Under favorable conditions there is no great difference in the results secured with the ordinary camera and lens of any reputable maker and those of the highest class. My own work has for the greater part been done with an outfit costing about thirty dollars; and although the best lens is, of course, to be desired it is not a necessity, and cost therefore is no more an obstacle to the hunting of birds with a camera than it is to their pursuit with a gun.

The Camera.—Individual taste will doubtless govern the size of the camera chosen, but most naturalists and sportsmen consider the camera carrying a plate four by five inches as the one best adapted to their wants, and with this decision I heartily agree. The advantages of size, weight, and economy, both as regards the camera, its holders, and plates, are all in favor of the 4 × 5, while as far as the bird photographer is concerned, it is not often that he has need of anything larger. The image of a bird will rarely be without adequate setting in a space four by five inches, which will also be found to be large enough for the portrayal of nests and eggs.

The 4 × 5 also reduces proportionately in making lantern slides, and if the picture is made the long way of the plate—that is, higher than broad—it can be easily adapted for illustrative purposes in duodecimo or octavo books. When a larger picture is desired it can readily be made by enlargement, an increase in size of three diameters, or six times the area, being possible from a sharp negative without undue loss of definition.

For use from a tripod any one of the several excellent long-focus cameras now on the market will be found to answer every requirement. If it is proposed to employ a telephoto lens, care should be taken to select the camera combining greatest bellows length with rigidity. A reversible back increases the size somewhat but adds to the length of bellows, and will be found serviceable in the many awkward situations in which the bird photographer is often placed by the nature of his subjects.

The Kearton brothers have an “adjustable miniature” on the top of their camera, which they state “is used as a sort of view finder when making studies of flying birds. When fixed in position and its focus has been set exactly like its working companion beneath it, both are racked out in the same ratio by the screw dominating the larger apparatus.”[^[A]] The purposes of this attachment, however, will, it seems probable, be better served by the reflecting camera described below, while as a finder alone its place may be taken by the “iconoscope” and other of the prism finders, the brilliant image cast by which is such a striking and satisfactory improvement on the hazy outlines given by the average so-called “finder.”

[A]. From Wild Life at Home, how to Study and Photograph It, by R. Kearton, illustrated by C. Kearton; a work of the utmost interest to the animal photographer, who should also read With Nature and a Camera, by the same authors (Cassell & Co.).

For use as a hand-box only two kinds of camera are available, for it must be borne in mind that the set-focus or short-focus, wide angle “snap-shot” cameras, so popular among the button-pressing fraternity, are not adapted to the wants of the bird photographer, who must therefore avail himself of either a twin-lens or a reflecting camera.

Twin-lens cameras are manufactured by several well-known firms, but the trade size is of too short focus to be desirable. In this type of camera two lenses of equal foci are employed. They are set one above the other in bellows, which move as one. The lower lens makes the picture, the upper projects a duplicate of the image cast by the lower lens to a mirror set at an angle of forty-five degrees to the plane of the plate, whence it is reflected upward to a ground glass, which is protected by a hood, on top of the camera.

To focus perfectly the lenses should be “matched” or “paired”—in short, interchangeable—thereby greatly increasing the cost of the camera, which is also rendered objectionable by its large size.

The reflecting camera possesses all the advantages of the twin-lens, but requires only one lens, and when in use is not materially larger than the ordinary 4 × 5 long-focus box.

The reflecting camera now in my possession was designed and made by John Rowley, of the American Museum of Natural History, and was fully described and illustrated by him in Bird-Lore for April, 1900. It resembles the upper half of the twin-lens camera in that a mirror, set at an angle of forty-five degrees to the plate, is interposed between the latter and the lens, and reflects its image to a ground glass on top of the camera. This mirror, however, is movable, and the desired object appearing in focus on the ground glass, a lever is pressed downward which raises the mirror to the top of the box, where it automatically releases a focal-plane shutter (see beyond, under The Shutter) directly in front of the plate, when the image-bearing rays, before intercepted and reflected by the mirror, are registered on the plate, from which the slide had previously been drawn.

When the focal-plane or curtain shutter has been set and the slide drawn from the plate holder, this camera is like a cocked gun, which may be fired the moment it is sighted; or, in other words, the exposure may be made the instant focus is secured. With this camera one may take advantage of any offering opportunity to secure a picture of a bird or beast when afield, and this fact, by increasing the possibilities of an outing, adds greatly to its pleasure.

Mr. Rowley has so designed this camera that it may be used from a tripod as well as in the hands; but when the tripod camera is to be left, perhaps for hours, hidden near some bird’s nest, I prefer to employ the long-focus for this purpose, and retain the reflecting camera for possible use on the birds that so often approach closely when one is in hiding. The advantages possessed by this camera are so apparent that it doubtless will soon be placed on the market.

The Lens.—Professional photographers differ so widely in their opinions of the relative qualities of the various makes of lenses now on the market, that I approach this subject with diffidence, and, without presuming to offer advice, present the results of my experience both as to lenses and the requirements of the bird photographer. In regard to the latter phase of the much-discussed question of “What lens shall I use?” I may speak with more confidence. For nests with eggs or young birds—subjects which may be approached closely—a six- to eight-inch-focus lens forms a large enough image, and at the same time gives depth of focus and sharpness of definition without the use of the smaller diaphragms. In photographing birds, however, it is generally difficult to get within “shooting” distance, and at least a fourteen- to sixteen-inch lens is needed in order to secure an image of sufficient size. Depth of focus is here, in my opinion, not desirable, and the focal point—the bird—is brought out more clearly by the fusion of all the objects back of it into a uniform background.

When a bird, either young or old, is the subject, great speed may be required, and sometimes under light conditions which severely test the qualities of the lens. To fully meet these demands of distance and time two lenses would be needed; but, aside from the increased cost and the inconvenience of using two lenses, the great size and weight of a long-focus lens are drawbacks. These objections are largely overcome by the use of the symmetrical lenses placed in most of the long-focus boxes, or, if expense be not considered, by a “convertible” lens.

For several years I have used a “Victor” lens, sold with the “Premo” long-focus camera. The combined focus of the front and back lenses is seven and a half inches, of either of the lenses alone, fifteen inches. The single lens therefore, the distance being the same, gives an image double the size of that cast by the two lenses together.

This lens has been thoroughly tested, and many of the pictures given in this book were made with it. When the conditions are favorable and the subject not extremely difficult it yields satisfactory results.

The “convertible” lenses of various makers are also separable, and where the rear and front lenses are of different foci three focal lengths are obtainable. These lenses are of the highest grade, and consequently expensive. In a bright light, or where great speed is not required, they do not seem to be as superior to the trade lens as the much higher price would lead one to expect. But in dull days, or in the shadow, or where extremely rapid exposures are necessary, their superior qualities become evident. My experience with these convertible lenses has been limited to the Zeiss Anastigmat, Series VII a, of which I am now using a No. 10 with a combined focus of eight inches, the front and rear lenses both having a focal length of fourteen inches. This combination is preferred to one in which the component lenses are of different foci, because of the greater speed of the two when combined, and furthermore, because, being of the same focus, they could, if occasion arose, be used in a twin-lens box. The speed of the combination is registered at F. 6.3; that of the single lenses at 12.5. With the former the most rapid exposures can be made successfully, while the latter are sufficiently fast to permit of ordinary instantaneous work. This lens is stated to cover a 5 × 8½ plate, and when in use on a 4 × 5 camera gives a high degree of illumination and perfect definition.

The telephoto lens may be employed in certain kinds of bird photography with not unsatisfactory results. Its disadvantages are lack of speed, an exposure of at least one half a second to a second being required at F. 8 in bright sunlight, the necessity of extreme care in focusing, and of absolute rigidity of the camera at the time of making the exposure. In short, the telephotographer needs more time, both before and after pressing his bulb, than the bird photographer is often accorded. However, with such subjects as nests high in trees or on cliffs, Herons and other shore-inhabiting birds, Ducks on the water or Hawks perched in leafless trees, the telephoto will be found serviceable.

Negatives are frequently secured in which the figure of the bird, while small, is sharp, when, by enlargement, a desirable picture can be made of what in the original was too small to be easily distinguishable. An increase in size of two diameters is possible from any fairly sharp negative, but if the object be in perfect focus an increase of four diameters may be made.

These enlargements may be made with an enlarging camera or with the aid of a Nehring enlarging lens, which is placed between the front and back lenses of the view lens, when, with the ordinary long-focus camera, a magnification of about four diameters may be obtained, the image being thrown on to a piece of bromide paper in the plate holder.

Through enlargement many apparently worthless negatives become of value, and in some instances pictures can be made from different parts of the same negative. From the sportsman-photographer’s standpoint there is, however, one objection to the use of a magnifying lens. It gives deceptive results, and those who are not familiar with its powers are apt to accord the photographer undue praise for his apparent skill in successfully approaching some bird or beast which may have been far out of range. A not wholly unrelated kind of enlargement is sometimes applied to the contents of creels and game bags!

But the animal photographer is so heavily handicapped that in this case the end assuredly justifies the means. As a matter of information, however, it seems eminently desirable to accompany all enlarged pictures by a statement of the extent of their magnification, and throughout this book this plan is followed. Consequently, when there is no mention of enlargement, it may be accepted as a fact that the print from which the reproduction was made was obtained from the negative by contact.

In illustration of these suggestions in regard to the proper lenses for bird photography, a series of pictures is presented which shows the results to be obtained under the same conditions with different lenses.

2. Lens Test No. 1. Mounted Flicker on fence post, distance fifty feet. Eight-inch focus, Zeiss Convertible, No. 10, Series VII a lens; diaphragm F. 8, ¹⁄₂₅ second; Cramer “Crown” plate. Photographed at noon, in sunlight, November 30, 1899.

3. The bird in Test No. 1 enlarged about three diameters.

Placing a mounted Flicker (Colaptes auratus) on a fence post, and setting up my tripod at a measured distance of fifty feet, a series of test exposures was made, of which three are presented as follows: First,² eight-inch lens (Zeiss Convertible Series VII a, No. 10), stop F. 8, time ¹⁄₂₅ second; second,⁴ fourteen-inch front lens of the combination, stop F. 16 (equivalent to F. 4 of the eight-inch); third,⁶ telephoto attachment with eight-inch lens, twenty-one-inch bellows, stop F. 8 of the eight-inch, time one second. Commenting on the results of these tests it may first be mentioned that in the “Unicum” shutter employed exposures of a so-called “¹⁄₁₀₀” and “¹⁄₂₅” seconds gave exactly the same results both with the combined eight-inch lens and the front fourteen-inch lens; the actual time, however, was doubtless not far from ¹⁄₂₅ of a second. The negatives, therefore, show, in the first place, that the long-focus lens is capable of doing fairly rapid work. Continuing our comparison, we observe that the eight-inch gives a fairly wide field, excellent depth of focus, but a very small image of the bird, for which alone the picture has been made. With the fourteen-inch we decrease the extent of the field nearly one half and almost double the size of the object pictured. This, however, has been done at the loss of depth of focus, not even the first of the line of posts running directly into the background being sharply defined, while with the eight-inch all are in focus.

4. Lens Test No. 2. Same subject, distance, plate, and date as Test No. 1. Front lens (fourteen-inch focus) of Zeiss Convertible, No. 10; diaphragm F. 16; ¹⁄₂₅ second.

5. The bird in Test No. 2 enlarged about three diameters.

The telephoto gives an enlargement of about six diameters of the image thrown by eight-inch lens, and three diameters increase of that of the fourteen-inch lens. It practically restricts the picture to the immediate surroundings of the bird, and is without focal depth.

6. Lens Test No. 3. Same subject, distance, plate, and date as Tests Nos. 2 and 3. Eight-inch Zeiss Convertible, Series VII a, No. 10, with telephoto attachment; diaphragm F. 8; twenty-one-inch bellows; one second (½ second was later found to be full time).

Having now made three good negatives in the field, we may, by enlargement, improve on the image of the bird obtained. The possibilities in this direction are clearly shown by the three enlargements accompanying the contact prints from their respective negatives. In each instance the enlargement is about three diameters, and the telephoto negative of course furnishes the most satisfactory picture. When the difficulties of telephotography are considered, however, and the ¹⁄₂₅-second exposure of the fourteen-inch lens, which permits of hand work, is compared with the one second of the telephoto, we believe that for general work in photographing birds a lens having a focal length of at least fourteen inches will be found the most satisfactory. It should be added that, in order to make them wholly comparable, the three contact prints as well as the enlargements were made on enameled bromide paper.

7. The bird in Test No. 3 enlarged about three diameters.

The Shutter.—For fairly rapid, slow, and time exposures, a lens shutter, such as is sold with trade cameras, will be found suitable. Simplicity and noiselessness are the chief requirements in this kind of a shutter. The “Iris Diaphragm” shutter is noiseless when used for slow exposures of two or three seconds, a matter of much importance in making time pictures of sitting birds, who are apt to turn their head if they hear the click of the shutter. This shutter, however, does not respond quickly in slow exposures and is very heavy, a disadvantage in telephotography.

The “Unicum” shutter is lighter, responds quickly, has a lever to which a thread may be attached for making exposures from a distance, can be easily diaphragmed from the rear, but is not wholly noiseless. There are also other shutters, each possessing good points of its own, and the selection of any one of them for use in medium rapid, slow, or time work can be left to the photographer, who should, however, remember that the time scales on these shutters represent degrees of difference and not exact measurements of time, and that there is great variation in the exposures of different shutters of the same make when similarly adjusted. Thus the “one fifth of a second” of one shutter may be equivalent to the “one second” of another. The scale on most of these shutters calls for a speed not exceeding a ¹⁄₁₀₀ part of a second, but this is far too slow an exposure to successfully photograph a flying bird at short range where a speed of at least ¹⁄₅₀₀ of a second is required.

For very rapid work the choice is limited to one kind of shutter—that is, the focal-plane, which in effect is a curtain with an adjustable slit which is placed directly in front of the plate. Great speed with this shutter is in part secured by increasing the tension of the spring, which acts as its motive power, but more particularly by decreasing the width of the slit. Assuming, therefore, that it takes one second for the slit to pass from top to bottom of a plate four inches high, and that the slit is one inch in width, it follows that each portion of the plate is exposed to the light for a quarter of a second. Decreasing the width of the slit one half, proportionally reduces the time of the exposure, and by this means, in connection with an increase in the speed with which the curtain is moved, an exposure of ¹⁄₁₀₀₀ of a second is possible.

In addition to possessing the advantage of great speed, this shutter also passes a higher percentage of light than a lens shutter even when the actual time of the so-called exposure is the same. This is due to the fact that the lens opening is in no way affected, it being the same throughout the exposure. With a lens shutter, on the contrary, the full value of the opening is given for only a fractional part of the exposure, the parts of the shutter more or less filling the opening during the rest of the time. With a focal-plane shutter, therefore, one may do rapid work under conditions where a lens shutter could not be successfully employed; time exposures, however, can not be made with the focal-plane shutter, and for all-around work the camera should be fitted with both a lens and a focal-plane shutter.

The reflecting camera, as before stated, is fitted with a focal-plane shutter, and, as described, it is released by pressing the lever, which raises the mirror. Lens shutters, however, are released by a pneumatic bulb, or in some cases by a thread or string. When the exposure is to be made from a distance as much as one hundred feet of tubing may be employed. With any length of over twenty-five feet an extra large bulb is required. The ordinary tubing sold by photographers will not be found so well adapted to long-distance work as a less elastic kind, which does not so readily yield to pressure and transmits a larger portion of the force applied when squeezing the bulb.

The Tripod.—A stout two-length tripod is to be preferred to one of the slender multifolding type, in which stability is sacrificed to weight and size. The legs, except the inner sides of the upper section into which the lower section slides, and brass work should be painted bark color in order to make them as inconspicuous as possible. For use in the water a metal tripod will prove more serviceable than one of wood.

A very useful substitute for a tripod is the “Graphic” ball-and-socket clamp designed more especially for bicycle camerists. With it a camera can easily be attached to the limb of a tree, rung of a ladder, or, by screwing a block on to the head of the tripod, it may be employed in connection with the tripod—in fact its applicability will be evident to every one using it.

Plates.—Among the many excellent brands of plates now offered to photographers there is really very little difference. However, it is advisable to select the one you think the most rapid and use it to the exclusion of all others. Under certain circumstances—in photographing Robins, for instance—isochromatic plates will be found desirable, and where a strong head light can not be avoided nonhalation plates may be employed.

So much industry, skill, and patience are generally required of the bird photographer before he makes an exposure that he should guard against all chances of failure from the photographic side. It is therefore advisable to thoroughly test plates which it is probable may be exposed on a very difficult subject. Under no circumstances should the plate holders be needlessly exposed to the light, and when the camera is to be left for an indefinite period with the slide drawn from the holder and plate ready to expose, it should be carefully wrapped in the dark-cloth.

Blinds.—As the sportsman constructs blinds in which he may conceal himself from his prey, so the bird photographer may employ various means of hiding from his subjects. The Keartons recommend an artificial tree trunk for use in wooded places and an artificial rubbish heap for open fields. The former may be made of light duck, painted to resemble bark, and placed over a frame.

The frame of the Keartons’ is of bamboo, but I find white pine answers very well, the main things to be considered being lightness and portability. The frame should therefore be collapsible in order that it may be easily packed.

The Keartons’ field blind or “rubbish heap” consists of an umbrella, to each of the ribs of which strips of bamboo four feet in length are tied. This is then covered with light brown holland and wisps of straw tied over it in such a way as to “virtually thatch the whole structure.” Doubtless cornstalks properly arranged would make an excellent field blind.

It is difficult to carry one of these blinds in addition to a camera, etc., without assistance, and I fear that the inconvenience attending their use will restrict them to the few enthusiasts who count neither time, labor, nor cost in attaining a desired end.

For my own part, I prefer, when possible, to conceal my camera and make the exposure from a distance rather than to weight myself with a portable blind and to endure the discomforts of being confined within it.

Sundries.—The bird photographer will find that he requires numerous articles not usually to be found in the regulation photographic outfit, as, for example, climbers for ascending trees and stout cords for hauling the camera up after him; a dark-cloth, green in color, to aid in disguising the camera, and a mirror. The latter should be of plate glass, and measure at least twelve by ten inches. A good plan is to buy a piece of glass of desired size and frame it simply in white pine. It may then be attached to a limb, a stick driven in the ground, or other convenient object, by means of the ball-and-socket clamp mentioned under Tripods, which may be screwed into the back or the outer border of the frame. Such a mirror will reflect sunlight many yards to shaded nests, where, in photographing old or young birds, a quick exposure is necessary. A vest-pocket mirror, for use in reflecting the reading of the diaphragms or time on the shutter, will permit one to make the desired changes from the rear, and thus prove helpful when conditions do not permit one to work in front of the camera.

A device which might be arranged on the principle of a trap, the trigger to be sprung and exposure made when the bait is taken, would doubtless capture some interesting pictures. An apparatus connected with an automatically fired flash-light, has been employed by Mr. G. A. Shiras, of Pittsburg, in photographing deer at night, with phenomenal success. The connection with the camera shutter was so made that the deer, in walking, touched a cord which exploded the flash-light, and, at the same moment, made the exposure. The light weight of most birds, however, requires a much more delicate apparatus, while an even greater difficulty is found in the movement caused by the release of the trigger, which startles the bird just as the exposure is made.

Thus far in my experiments I have been unable to overcome these objections, but I trust some other bird photographer will be more successful.

Those who are ambitious in the direction of cliff photography I would refer to the Keartons’ admirable treatise on the subject in their Wild Life at Home, for a description of the paraphernalia needed and the manner in which it should be used. My own experience in this line is limited, and I confess to the utter absence of a desire to increase it!

THE METHODS OF THE BIRD PHOTOGRAPHER

Claiming no special knowledge of the technique of pure photography, I would refer the beginner to any of the several excellent books designed to explain the rudiments of optical and chemical photography, and to instruct in regard to the matters of exposing, developing, printing, etc. Only such suggestions are given here, therefore, as relate directly to the manner in which birds, their nests, eggs, and haunts may be photographed.

Haunts.—Photographs of the characteristic haunts of birds should show not alone general topography, but should also be made with special reference to the bird’s feeding habits, which, more than anything else, govern the nature of the locality selected. Thus, a photograph of the home of the Woodcock would have added value if, in the immediate foreground, the “borings” made by this bird in probing the earth for food were evident; or a marsh scene, in which wild rice was conspicuous, would tell something of both the haunts and the food habits of the Reedbird and Red-winged Blackbird in August and September. In a similar way, pictures of wild cherry and dogwood trees, of bayberries and red cedar, which show both fruit and surroundings, are of interest in connection with the biographies of many birds.

8. Spring.

9. Summer.

Seasons.—The camera permits us to make so exact a record of the rise and fall of the year, as it is registered by vegetation, that we can actually compare existing conditions with those which prevailed at any previous time. Compare, for example, the series of four pictures^[8]–[11] here presented, all made from the same point of view, in order to appreciate how graphically seasonal changes may be shown by the camera. In this instance, photography is of more service to the botanist than to the ornithologist; but every student of migration knows how closely related are the appearance of certain birds and flowers, and will readily appreciate, therefore, the value of a series of photographs of several different subjects, taken at short intervals, and showing the changes in vegetation due to the approach of summer or winter. In connection with such related phenomena as temperature, rainfall, and weather, these pictures form as accurate a record of the seasons as it is possible to make, and if data of this kind could be brought together from many selected localities, we should have an admirable basis for the intelligent study of certain phases of bird migration.

10. Autumn.

Nests and Eggs.—The photographing of nests is one of the simpler forms of bird photography, but in many instances success is achieved only through the exercise of much patience and ingenuity.

11. Winter.

It should constantly be borne in mind, in photographing nests, that what is desired is not so much a picture of the nest alone as one which shows it in relation to its environment—in short, a picture of the nesting site is of more value than one of the nest only. It is advisable, however, to make at least three pictures, two^{[12], [13]} of which shall show the nature of the locality chosen, the other^[14] the character of the nest and its immediate surroundings. When the nest is not above five feet from the ground, little difficulty will be experienced in securing the desired picture. When on the ground it will sometimes be found helpful to put what naturally would be the rear leg of the tripod forward, between the other two, when it will serve as a brace from in front, and permit the camera to be tilted well downward without danger of its falling.

Nests at an elevation of seven or eight feet, in saplings, may be photographed by lengthening the tripod with short legs, each supplied with two staples or collars into which the ends of the tripod may be slipped; or a ladder or light scaffolding will sometimes be found necessary.

12. To show nest locality of: 1, Tree Swallow; 2, American Bittern; 3, Song Sparrow; 4, Maryland Yellow-throat; 5, Marsh Hawk, of which nesting site, nest, and young are shown in the two following pictures, Nos. 13 and 14. Meridian, N. Y., June 8, 1898.

For photographing nests in trees the “Graphic” ball-and-socket clamp is of great assistance. With it the camera may be attached to a limb, or, if the limb is too large, a block may be nailed to it, thus furnishing a grip to which the clamp may be fastened.

13. Nesting site, nest, and young of Marsh Hawk.

Nests should be photographed from the side, but eggs should be photographed from above in order to show their position in the nest as they were arranged by the incubating bird. The nest should therefore never be tipped, nor should the eggs be touched, lest the value of the subject be destroyed. The markings of most birds’ eggs are already well known, but if photographs of them are desired they can be made from the thousands of eggshells with which ill-directed effort has stocked the cabinets of misguided oölogists.

14. Young Marsh Hawks and nest.

It is not advisable to make photographs of nests in the sunlight, a diffused light giving greater detail. A screen of some thin white material should therefore be used as a shade when photographing nests exposed to the direct rays of the sun. This, however, will not be found necessary if the picture be made within two or three hours after sunrise, when the light is soft and the foliage comparatively motionless, permitting the use of a small diaphragm and a long exposure.

15. Young Great-crested Flycatcher.

Young Birds.—The ease with which photographs of young birds may often be secured, the fact that with the camera their appearance and development may be more satisfactorily recorded than in any other way, makes their study by the photographer of exceeding importance. Photographs of young birds should of course be accompanied by notes on food, calls, special actions, etc., which the camera can not well portray.

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

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

16. Young Baltimore Orioles and nest.

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

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

17. Wood Thrush on nest.

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

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

18. Chestnut-sided Warbler on nest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

19. Catbird scolding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

BIRD STUDIES WITH A CAMERA

BIRD PHOTOGRAPHY BEGINS AT HOME

The influence exerted by the camera in creating new values for the bird student is perhaps nowhere more evident than in the immediate vicinity of one’s home. Even the view from our windows possesses fresh significance as we speculate on the probability of securing a desirable picture from this or that point of vantage, while birds to which long familiarity has partially dimmed our vision now become possible subjects for our camera, and we find ourselves observing their movements with an alertness before unknown.

In my own case, I have learned almost to tolerate the House Sparrows, with which I have been at war as long as memory serves me, for the pleasure found in attempting to outwit these shrewd, independent, impudent rats among birds; and, on closer acquaintance, they prove such interesting subjects for study that, if their vocal ability equaled their intelligence, they might be as generally liked as they are hated. So much for the magic of a sweet voice. As it is, they possess a greater variety of notes than they are generally credited with, and their conversational powers undoubtedly exceed those of many accomplished singers. In addition to the insistent, reiterated chissick, chissick, which constitutes the song of the male, one soon learns to recognize calls of warning, alarm, flight, battle, and the soft whistle which the bird utters when it approaches its nest—the only musical note in its vocabulary.

20. House Sparrows and Junco.

Quick to notice the slightest deviation from normal conditions, House Sparrows are difficult birds to photograph. They seem to be constantly on the watch for some sign of danger, and an unusual arrangement of blind or shade at once arouses their suspicions. After a heavy fall of snow, however, hunger dulls the edge of their fears, and by scattering food near a suitable window the birds may be decoyed within photographing distance.^[20] It will be found necessary, even then, to conceal the camera, which they evidently distinguish from familiar pieces of furniture and regard with alarm.

This, too, is the best time to secure pictures of Juncos,^[21] Chickadees, Nuthatches, Downy Woodpeckers, Blue Jays, and less common winter birds. The four last named are rarely or never seen about my home in winter. Doubtless the abundant and surrounding woodlands afford them a more congenial haunt, from which they are not to be enticed by suet, bones, or grain; or, more likely still, the custom of putting out food for birds is so unusual in the region about New York city that they have not yet learned to expect it. It is a most pleasing surprise to the resident of this section to observe the numbers and familiarity of winter birds in the environs of Boston, where a feast seems spread for them in nearly every dooryard.

21. Junco. × 3.

22. Female House Sparrow and nest. × 3.

To return to the Sparrow. The bird’s nest also provides a focal point for the camera, but, as elsewhere, the greatest precautions must be taken, and I have succeeded in securing a picture only when some advantageously situated window afforded a natural blind. One of the pictures thus obtained shows a nest in the ornamental part of a gutter, with the female looking from an adjoining opening.^[22] This gutter seems especially designed to furnish lodgings for Sparrows, and no argument that I have thus far advanced has convinced them that it was not erected for their use. During the early part of their occupancy, a rap on their roof promptly brought them out to perch in the branches of the neighboring trees, where their chattering protest was soon interrupted by a gunshot; but the survivors quickly learned the meaning of the roof tap, and now, without a moment’s pause, they dive downward from their doorway and fly out of range at topmost speed.

23. Screech Owl. × 3.

More welcome tenants than the House Sparrows are a pair of Screech Owls, who for years have reared their broods in a dovecotelike gable, where they are beyond the reach of nest robbers of all kinds. During the winter they apparently are absent, nor indeed are they seen until June, when, each evening at sundown, one of the pair, probably the male, takes his post at the entrance to its home and gives utterance to the crooning refrain which sometimes follows the so-called tremulous “screech.” But the latter I never hear at this season. In spite of the poor light prevailing at this hour, the bird’s stillness has tempted repeated trials to secure its picture, and the most successful, made with a fourteen-inch lens and an exposure of fifteen seconds, is here shown.^[23] Telephotos have thus far been underexposed.

As a means of making the exposure as soon as possible after the Owl appeared, I have on a number of occasions placed my camera in position, focused and otherwise made ready some minutes before he was expected, and I recall with amusement the incredulity of a friend whose surprise at seeing me point my camera skyward without ostensible purpose was in no way lessened when I told him that I had an appointment with an Owl, who was to take his stand shortly in the hole toward which the camera was directed; and fortunately the bird was on time!

From the perch, some forty feet aloft, the grave little creature surveys the scene below with an expression of combined wisdom and thoughtfulness which makes a laugh seem wanton foolishness. At the border of dusk and dark he flies out to feed, often descending to the ground and remaining there for some moments while catching insects. Occasionally he takes his prey from the tree trunks, perhaps a cicada struggling from its shell, and on several occasions I have thought he captured food on the wing. Sometimes the supper hunt leads him to the edge of the croquet lawn, where from the earth or the back of a garden bench he becomes an interested spectator of the last game. When the young appear, later in the month, the evergreens seem alive with Owls, who flit about and utter querulous little calls difficult of description. Toward the end of July, doubtless after the molt is completed, presumably the adults—for never more than two are heard—begin to sing; and this habit of post-nuptial singing seems not to be confined to the Screech Owl, for about this time the deep-toned, resounding notes of the Barred Owl come up from the woods. Throughout August and September the wailing whistle, which is ever welcome for its spirit of wildness, is heard nightly, and as the plaintive notes tremble on the hushed air we invariably say, “Hark, there’s the Owl!”

My experience as bird photographer about home, I must admit, has consisted chiefly in a series of encouraging failures which have borne no tangible results. Let us hope, however, that the few pictures here presented will prove as suggestive to the reader as they are to their maker, who, although he offers such inadequate proof in support of his belief, is far too well convinced of the possibilities of home photography to go afield without saying at least a word in its behalf.

THE CHICKADEE
A Study in Black and White

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

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

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

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

24. Chickadee on ground.

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

25. Chickadee taking piece of bread.

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

26. A bird in the hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is true that the female—and throughout this description I assume that the bird with much-worn plumage was of this sex—promptly left the stub at my approach; but when I retired to the undergrowth there was no tiresome wait of hours while the bird, flitting from bush to bush, chirped suspiciously, but almost immediately she returned to her home.^[27] The camera was examined, but clearly not considered dangerous, its tripod sometimes serving as a step to the nest entrance. The click of the shutter, however, when an exposure was made as the bird was about to enter its dwelling, caused some alarm, and she flew back to a neighboring tree, and for some time hopped restlessly from limb to limb.

The male, who had previously kept in the background, now approached, and, as if to soothe his troubled mate, thoughtfully gave her a caterpillar. She welcomed him with a gentle, tremulous fluttering of the wings—a motion similar to that made by young birds when begging for food. He, however, made what appeared to be precisely the same movements when she perched beside him.

27. Chickadee at nest hole.

It was not long before the female became so accustomed to the snap of the shutter that in order to prevent her from entering the nest I was forced to rush out from my hiding place; but at last, apparently becoming desperate, she succeeded in returning to her eggs in spite of my best efforts to prevent her.

There now ensued a very interesting change in the bird’s action. It will be remembered that at first she had left the nest on hearing me approach, while a light tap brought her through the opening with startling promptness. But now, evidently realizing that a return to her duties of incubation could be made only at great risk, she determined under no conditions to leave her eggs. In vain I rapped at her door and shook her dwelling to its foundations; no bird appeared, and not believing it possible that under the circumstances she would remain within the stub, I felt that she must have left without my knowledge, and therefore retired to await her reappearance.

28. Chickadee at nest hole.

At the end of several minutes the male, with food in his bill, advanced cautiously, and clinging to the rim of the nest opening, hung there a moment and departed minus the food. This was surprising. Could there be young in the nest? or was the bird, in imitation of the Hornbill, feeding his imprisoned mate? I rapped again, and this time, perhaps taken unawares, the female answered my question by appearing.

On June 3d a family arrived in the Chickadee villa, and both birds were found actively engaged in administering to its wants.

As a return for the inconvenience to which they had been subjected, a perch was erected by way of a step at their door. The female was appreciative and at once availed herself of this means of entering her home.^[28] The male, however, as before, was more wary. He had braved the camera to bring food to his mate, but his offspring had apparently not so strong a claim upon him. He would fly off in search of food and shortly return with a caterpillar, then perch quietly for several minutes a few yards from the nest, when, repelled by the camera and attracted by the food in his bill, he yielded to temptation, devoured the caterpillar, vigorously wiped his bill, at once started to forage for more food, and returned with it only to repeat his previous performance.

Occasionally he uttered a low whistle, addressed presumably to the female, and at times a chickadee-dee-dee, which I interpreted as a protest to me, and both notes were also uttered by the female.

The latter took so kindly to the doorstep that it was determined to give her a door, and to this end a leaf was pinned over the entrance to her home in such a manner that it swung to and fro, like the latch to a keyhole. This clearly did not meet with her approval, and at first she seemed puzzled to account for the apparent disappearance of the nest opening. But in less than a minute she solved the mystery, pushed the leaf to one side, and disappeared within.

Returning to the nest on June 12th, nothing was to be seen of either parent, and I feared that they or their offspring had fallen victims to the countless dangers which beset nesting birds and their young. Looking about for some clew to their fate, I found on the ground, near the nest stub, the worn tail-feathers of the female bird. The molting season had not yet arrived, nor would she have shed all these feathers at the same moment. There could therefore be only one interpretation of their presence. Some foe—probably a Sharp-shinned or Cooper’s Hawk, since the predaceous mammals for the most part hunt at night, when the Chickadee would be snugly sleeping in her nest—had made a dash and grasped her by the tail, which she had sacrificed in escaping. A moment later the theory was supported by the appearance of a subdued-looking Chickadee, sans tail, and I congratulated her on her fortunate exchange of life for a member which of late had not been very decorative, and of which, in any event, Nature would have soon deprived her.

The young proved to be nearly ready to fly, and, carefully removing the front of their log cabin, a sight was disclosed such as mortal probably never beheld before and Chickadee but rarely.

Six black-and-white heads were raised and six yellow-lined mouths opened in expressive appeal for food. But this was not all; there was another layer of Chickadees below—how many it was impossible to say without disentangling a wad of birds so compact that the outlines of no one bird could be distinguished. A piazza, as it were, was built at the Chickadees’ threshold in the shape of a perch of proper size, and beneath, as a life net, was spread a piece of mosquito bar. Then I proceeded to individualize the ball of feathers; one, two, three, to seven were counted without undue surprise, but when an eighth and ninth were added, I marveled at the energy which had supplied so many mouths with food, and at the same time wondered how many caterpillars had been devoured by this one family of birds.

Not less remarkable than the number of young—and no book that I have consulted records so large a brood—was their condition. Not only did they all appear lusty, but they seemed to be about equally developed, the slight difference in strength and size which existed being easily attributable to a difference in age, some interval doubtless having elapsed between the hatching of the first and last egg.

29. A Chickadee family.

This fact would have been of interest had the birds inhabited an open nest, or a nest large enough for them all to have had an equal opportunity to receive food; but where only two thirds of their number could be seen from above at once, and where a very little neglect would have resulted fatally, it seems remarkable that one or more, failing to receive his share of food, had not been weakened in consequence and crushed to death by more fortunate members of the brood. Nor was their physical condition the only surprising thing about the members of this Chickadee family: each individual was as clean as though he had been reared in a nest alone, and an examination of the nest showed that it would have been passed as perfect by the most scrupulous sanitary inspector. It was composed of firmly padded rabbit’s fur, and, except for the sheaths worn off the growing feathers of the young birds, was absolutely clean. Later, I observed that the excreta of the young were inclosed in membranous sacs, which enabled the parents to readily remove them from the nest.

30. A Chickadee family.

The last bird having been placed in the net, I attempted to pose them in a row on the perch before their door. The task reminded me of almost forgotten efforts at building card houses, which, when nearly completed, would be brought to ruin by an ill-placed card. How many times each Chickadee tumbled or fluttered from his perch I can not say. The soft, elastic net, spread beneath them, preserved them from injury, and bird after bird was returned to his place so little worse for his fall that he was quite ready to try it again. Finally, eight birds were induced to take the positions assigned them; then, in assisting the ninth to his allotted place, the balance of a bird on either side would be disturbed, and down into the net they would go.

These difficulties, however, could be overcome, but not so the failure of the light at the critical time, making it necessary to expose with a wide open lens at the loss of a depth of focus.

The picture presented, therefore, does not do the subject justice. Nor can it tell of the pleasure with which each fledgeling for the first time stretched its wings and legs to their full extent, and preened its plumage with before unknown freedom.

At the same time they uttered a satisfied little dee-dee-dee, in quaint imitation of their elders. When I whistled their well-known phe-be note, they were at once on the alert, and evidently expected to be fed.

The birds were within two or three days of leaving the nest, and, the sitting over, the problem came of returning the flock to a cavity barely two inches in diameter, the bottom of which was almost filled by one bird.

I at once confess a failure to restore anything like the condition in which they were found, and when the front of their dwelling was replaced, Chickadees were overflowing at the door. If their healthfulness had not belied the thought, I should have supposed it impossible for them to exist in such close quarters.

A few days later their home was deserted, and, as no other Chickadees were known to nest in the vicinity, I imagine them to compose a troop of birds which is sometimes found in the neighborhood.

THE LEAST BITTERN AND SOME OTHER REED INHABITANTS

My experience with the Least Bittern leaves the eerie little creature a half-solved mystery, and I think of it less as a bird than as a survivor of a former geological period, when birds still showed traits of their not distant reptilian ancestors.

The Bittern’s home is in fresh-water, cat-tail marshes, and he wanders at will through the thickly set forest of reeds without of necessity putting foot to the water below or flapping wing in the air above. His peculiar mode of progression constitutes one of his chief characteristics. The reeds in which he lives generally grow in several feet of water, far too deep, therefore, to permit of his wading; while his secretive disposition makes him averse to appearing in the open, except after nightfall. It is impossible to fly through the cat-tails, and so the bird walks and even runs through them, stepping from stem to stem with surprising agility. I had heard of this habit, but the description conveyed as little idea of the bird’s appearance as it is feared this one will, and when for the first time a Least Bittern was seen striding off through the reeds about three feet above the water, the performance was so entirely unlike anything I had ever seen a bird do before, I marveled that his acrobatic powers had not made him famous.

The feathered gymnast’s slender body—or perhaps one should say neck, for the bird is chiefly neck and head—seemed to be mounted on long stilts, with the aid of which he waded rapidly through the water, his head shooting in and out at each stride.

The Least Bittern’s notes appear to be less known than his habits. Nuttall, that exceptionally keen-eared bird student, was familiar with them, but most writers have restricted themselves to the statement that, when flushed, the bird utters a low qua, while some have even said he was voiceless.

I should not be in the least surprised to learn that this uncanny inhabitant of the reeds had a call fully as remarkable as the vocal performance of his large relative, the American Bittern, but thus far in my slight acquaintance with him he has been heard to utter only four notes: A soft, low coo, slowly repeated five or six times, and which is probably the love song of the male; an explosive alarm note, quoh; a hissing hah, with which the bird threatens a disturber of its nest; and a low tut-tut-tut, apparently a protest against the same kind of intrusion.

31. Least Bittern’s nesting site, showing reeds bent over nest. One of four eggs can be seen.

It was the markedly dovelike coo which first introduced me to this species. With William Brewster I was at the Fresh Pond marshes, listening for the repetition of some strange calls which had excited the curiosity of Cambridge ornithologists, and which proved to belong to a Florida Gallinule,[^[B]] when we heard the soft notes of a Least Bittern, who soon rose from the marsh near by. A few days later the Bittern was found in full song—if the coo be its song—in the marshes of Presque Isle in Erie Bay; but it must be confessed that a desire to secure specimens of this, to me, strange bird left no opportunity to study its habits, and the species was not again observed until June, 1898, in the northern part of Cayuga County, New York. Here, under the guidance of an observing local ornithologist, Mr. E. G. Tabor, an encounter was had with a Least Bittern which made a unique page in my experience as a bird student.

[B]. See Brewster, Auk, vol. viii, 1891, p. 1.

It was on the border of Otter Lake, where the Least Bitterns nest in small numbers in low bushes, or a mass of drift, or more often in the fringe of cat-tails. The trail of a boat through the reeds and empty nests, which before had held from three to five eggs, marked the ill-directed work of the boy oölogists whose misspent zeal has resulted in such a vast accumulation of eggshells and such an absence of information about the birds that laid them. A visit to a more distant part of the lake, where even thus early in the year the cat-tails were five feet above water of over half that depth, saved the day, as far as Least Bitterns were concerned. Paddling close to the reeds, a practiced eye could distinguish the site of a Bittern’s nest, when the nest itself was invisible, by the bowed tips of the reeds which the bird invariably bends over it.^[31] The object of this habit is perhaps to aid in concealing the eggs from an enemy passing overhead—a Crow, for example—an attack by boat evidently not being taken into consideration.

Certainly our appearance was in the nature of a surprise to a pair of birds who had just completed their platformlike nest and were apparently discussing future steps in their domestic affairs.

32. Least Bittern’s nest; reeds parted to show eggs.

As we approached, the female, who even before the eggs are laid seems to have the home love more strongly developed than the male, bravely stuck to her post, while the male marched off through the reeds in the manner which has been described as so remarkable. When he paused, with either foot grasping reeds several inches apart or clung to a single stalk with both feet, he resembled a gigantic, tailless Marsh Wren.

33. Least Bittern on nest mimicking its surroundings.

The actions of the female were interesting in the extreme. Her first move was an attempt at concealment through protective mimicry—a rare device among birds. Stretching her neck to the utmost, she pointed her bill to the zenith, the brownish marks on the feathers of the throat became lines which, separated by the white spaces between them, might easily have passed for dried reeds, and the bird’s statuelike pose, when almost within reach, evinced her belief in her own invisibility.^{[33], [34]}

The pose recalled Hudson’s experience with a wounded Least Bittern (Ardetta involucris, a near relative of our bird) in the marshes of La Plata, where a bird at his feet, in the same position as the one before me, was discovered only after careful search, and which, to the naturalist’s amazement, slowly revolved as he walked around it, with the presumable object of keeping its protectively colored breast turned toward him.

34. Least Bittern on nest mimicking its surroundings.

My bird, however, was among fresh reeds, and while one can not doubt the effectiveness of its attitude and color, when seen among dead reeds or grasses, neither were of value among its green surroundings.

With the light on the wrong side and the reeds swaying violently in the wind, we essayed to picture the bird, and the best of several attempts made under these adverse conditions are here given.

Covering my hand with my cap I held it toward her, when, convinced that her little trick had failed, she adopted new tactics, and struck at me with force and rapidity, which made me thankful that my hand was protected. Her bright yellow eyes glared with the intensity of a snake’s, and her reptilelike appearance was increased by the length and slenderness of her head and neck. Her courage was admirable; she not only displayed no fear, but was actually aggressive, and with a hissing hah struck viciously at my hand each time it was placed near the nest. As I quickly retreated on each occasion, and at length made no further move toward her, she decided to withdraw, perhaps to join her cautious mate, who from the reeds had been uttering a warning tut-tut-tut at intervals. Very slowly and watchfully she left the nest, and when she had advanced a few feet through the reeds I again ventured to touch her platform home, putting my hand, however, under it; but the motion instantly attracted her attention, and, darting back to her post, she was on guard in a moment. Then I left her, retiring from the field fairly vanquished in my first hand-to-bill encounter with a wild bird. I hope she laid a full complement of five eggs and from them reared five birds worthy representatives of their mother.

A desire to renew my acquaintance with—or perhaps I should say advances toward—this unbirdlike feathered biped, and to meet it under conditions more favorable for the camera hunter, brought me the following year (June 17, 1899), to the Montezuma marshes at the head of Cayuga Lake. Here are endless forests of cat-tails in which dwell not only Bitterns, Long-billed Marsh Wrens, and Red-winged Blackbirds, but also numbers of Pied-billed Grebes and Florida Gallinules.

There is a mystery about a marsh akin to that which impresses one in a primeval forest. The possibilities of both seem limitless. One hears so much and sees so little. Birds calling from a distance of only a few yards may remain long unidentified. A rustling in the reeds arouses vague expectations.

The notes of marsh-inhabiting birds are in keeping with the character of their haunts. They are distinctly wild and strange, and often thrilling. The Rails, for example, all have singular, loud, startling calls. The American Bittern is a famous marsh songster, but although several of his common names are based on his calls, it is only recently that he has actually been seen uttering them. The Gallinule resembles the hen in the character, volume, and variety of its notes, and to it and not the Clapper Rail should be given the name “Marsh Hen.” Indeed, its European relative, from which it can scarcely be distinguished, is known as the Moor Hen or Water Hen.

But of all this marsh music none to my ear is more singular than the call of the Pied-billed Grebe. It is mentioned in few books, and has won the bird no such fame as the Loon’s maniacal laughter has brought him, though as a vocalist the Grebe fairly rivals his large cousin. Like most bird calls it is indescribable, but perhaps sufficient idea of its character may be given to lead to its identification when heard. It is very loud and sonorous, with a cuckoolike quality, and may be written cow-cow-cow-cow-cow-cow-cow-cow-cow-uh, cow-uh, cow-uh, cow-uh. These notes vary in number, and are sometimes followed by prolonged wailing cows or ohs almost human in their expressiveness of pain, fear, and anguish.

This is the love song of the male, and when he has won a mate she joins him in singing, uttering, as he calls, a rapid cuk-cuk-cuk, followed by a slower ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh.

The Gallinules were cackling in the reeds, where a nest with three hatching eggs was found, but not a bird was seen. Red-winged Blackbirds were chattering with excitement as they guided the first wing strokes of their young, who perched on the reeds begged eloquently for food rather than for lessons in flying.^[35]

35. Young Red-winged Blackbirds.

In a small island of cat-tails a pair of Grebes was calling, and after the most careful stalking my companion saw the female respond to the voice of her mate.

It was in this island—if a patch of cat-tails growing in three feet of water can be called an island—that we found the first two of numerous Least Bitterns’ nests, and here our camera studies were made. These nests were typical in form and site; one contained five and the other four^[32] eggs, from which the birds had apparently departed as we pushed our boat toward them.

Less than twenty minutes later we again passed these nests and found, to our surprise, that in one all four, and in the other two eggs had been punctured, as if by an awl. Here was a mystery which my companion, who was examining the second nest while I was studying the first, quickly solved by seeing a Long-billed Marsh Wren actually make an attack on the remaining three eggs, and a little later a bird of the same species—perhaps the same individual, since the Bitterns’ nests were not more than twenty yards apart—visited the first nest to complete its work on the five already ruined eggs.

Our attempt to photograph the energetic little marauder failed, nor did we succeed in learning the real cause of its remarkable destructiveness. However, the fact that in one nest alone it drove its needlelike bill into all five eggs without pausing to feast on their contents, would imply that it was not prompted by hunger, and, much against our will, we were forced to attribute the bird’s actions to pure viciousness; though, it is true, there may have been another side to the story, in which the Bittern was the culprit.

The owners of the four eggs did not return while we were present, and the following day we found their nest empty—a mute protest against fate.

36. Least Bittern eating her eggs.

The female of the second nest discovered, in which only two of the five eggs had been injured, proved to be a bird of character.

37. Least Bittern on nest.

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

TWO HERONS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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