“This, reader, is one of the scarce birds that visit the United States from the south, and I have much pleasure in being able to give you an account of it, as hitherto little or nothing has been known of its history.

It is an inhabitant of Louisiana during the spring and summer months, when it resorts to the thick cane-breaks of the alluvial lands near the Mississippi, and the borders of the numberless swamps that lie in a direction parallel to that river . . . In the month of May 1809, I killed a male and a female of this species, near the mouth of the Ohio, while on a shooting expedition after young swans.  The following spring, I killed a female near Henderson in Kentucky. In 1821, I again procured a pair, with their nest and eggs, near the mouth of the Bayou La Fourche, on the Mississippi, and since that period have killed eight or ten pairs . . .

The manners of this bird are not those of the Titmouse, Fly-catcher, or Warbler, but partake of those of all three.  It has the want of shyness exhibited in the Red-eyed and Yellow-throated Fly-catchers.  It hangs to bunches of small berries, feeding upon them as a Titmouse does on buds of trees; and again searches among the leaves and along the twigs of low bushes, like most of the Warblers.  On the other hand, it differs from all these in their principal habits.  Thus, it never snaps at insects on the wing, although it pursues them; it never attacks small birds and kills them by breaking in their skulls, as the Titmouse does; nor does it hold its prey under its foot in the way of the Yellow-throated Fly-catcher or Vireo, a habit which allies the latter to the Shrikes . . . I have never heard it utter a note beyond that of a querulous low murmuring sound, when chasing another bird from the vicinity of its nest.”

–J. J. Audubon, Ornithological Biography, I (1831), 147-148 [excerpted].

“You have now, kind reader, under consideration a family of woodpeckers, the general habits of which are so well known in our United States, that, were I assured of your having traversed the woods of America, I should feel disposed to say little about them.

The Red-heads . . . remain in the southern districts [of the U.S.] during the whole winter, and breed there in summer.  The greater number, however, pass to countries farther south.  Their migration takes place under night, is commenced in the middle of September, and continues for a month or six weeks.  They then fly very high above the trees, far apart, like a disbanded army, propelling themselves by reiterated flaps of the wings . . .”

I would not recommend to anyone to trust their fruit to the Red-heads; for they not only feed on all kinds as they ripen, but destroy an immense quantity besides.  No sooner are the cherries seen to redden, than these birds attack them.  They arrive on all sides, coming from a distance of miles . . . Trees of this kind are stripped clean by them . . .

It is impossible to form any estimate of the number of these birds seen in the United States during the Summer months; but this much I may safely assert, that an hundred have been shot upon a single cherry tree in one day.”

–J. J. Audubon, Ornithological Biography, I (1831), 141-142 [excerpts].

If you only visit the Watkinson once this semester, let it be this week!  One of the most famous birds in the Audubon (both because of the artistry and because it is now extinct) is on display until Friday.

“Doubtless, kind reader, you will say, while looking at the seven figures of Parakeets represented in the plate, that I spared not my labour.  I never do, so anxious am I to promote your pleasure . . .

The Parrot does not satisfy himself with cockle-burs, but eats or destroys almost every kind of fruit indiscriminately, and on this account is always an unwelcome visitor to the planter, the farmer, or the gardener. The stacks of grain put up in the field are resorted to by flocks of these birds, which frequently cover them so entirely, that they present to the eye the same effect as if a brilliantly coloured carpet had been thrown over them. They cling around the whole stack, pull out the straws, and destroy twice as much of the grain as would suffice to satisfy their hunger. They assail the pear and apple-trees, when the fruit is yet very small and far from being ripe, and this merely for the sake of the seeds. As on the stalks of corn, they alight on the apple-trees of our orchards, or the pear-trees in the gardens, in great numbers; and, as if through mere mischief, pluck off the fruits, open them up to the core, and, disappointed at the sight of the seeds, which are yet soft and of a milky consistence, drop the apple or pear, and pluck another, passing from branch to branch, until the trees which were before so promising, are left completely stripped, like the ship water-logged and abandoned by its crew, floating on the yet agitated waves, after the tempest has ceased. They visit the mulberries, pecan-nuts, grapes, and even the seeds of the dog-wood, before they are ripe, and on all commit similar depredations. The maize alone never attracts their notice.

Do not imagine, reader, that all these outrages are borne without severe retaliation on the part of the planters. So far from this, the Parakeets are destroyed in great numbers, for whilst busily engaged in plucking off the fruits or tearing the grain from the stacks, the husbandman approaches them with perfect ease, and commits great slaughter among them. All the survivors rise, shriek, fly round about for a few minutes, and again alight on the very place of most imminent danger. The gun is kept at work; eight or ten, or even twenty, are killed at every discharge. The living birds, as if conscious of the death of their companions, sweep over their bodies, screaming as loud as ever, but still return to the stack to be shot at, until so few remain alive, that the farmer does not consider it worth his while to spend more of his ammunition. I have seen several hundreds destroyed in this manner in the course of a few hours, and have procured a basketful of these birds at a few shots, in order to make choice of good specimens for drawing the figures by which this species is represented in the plate now under your consideration.”

–J. J. Audubon, Ornithological Biography, I (1831), 135-136 [excerpts].

This little nugget is part of a small display in the Trinity College Library atrium that I have put up of books and documents in the library relating to the sinking of the Titanic, which happened 100 years ago on April 15, 1912.

Spun-Yarn: Sea Stories.  Morgan Robertson (New York, 1898).

A collection of five sea-stories by the author of Futility, published the same year and mentioned below.  Morgan Andrew Robertson was born in Oswego, NY in 1861, the son of a Great Lakes ship captain.  He served in the merchant marine from 1877-86, became a jeweler in New York until his eyes failed him, and then made a meager living writing until he died almost penniless in 1915.

In 1898 Robertson concocted a novel about a fabulous Atlantic liner, far larger than any that had ever been built.  Robertson loaded his ship with rich and complacent people and then wrecked it one cold April night on an iceberg.  This somehow showed the futility of everything, and in fact, the book was called Futility when it appeared that year.

Fourteen years later a British shipping company named the White Star Line built a steamer remarkably like the one in Robertson’s novel (which the library does not, unfortunately, own).  The new liner was 66,000 tons displacement; Robertson’s was 70,000 tons.  The real ship was 882.5 feet long; the fictional one was 800 feet.  Both vessels were triple screw and could make 24–25 knots.  Both could carry about 3,000 people, and both had enough life-boats for only a fraction of this number.  But then, this didn’t seem to matter because both were labeled “unsinkable.”

On April 10, 1912, the real ship left Southampton on her maiden voyage to New York.  Her cargo included a priceless copy of the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám and a list of passengers collectively worth $250 million dollars ($100 billion today).  On her way over she too struck an iceberg and went down on a cold April night.  Robertson called his ship the Titan; the White Star Line called its ship the Titanic.

—Walter Lord, A Night to Remember (1955)

“The Song Sparrow is one of the most abundant of its tribe in Louisiana, during winter.  This abundance is easily accounted for by the circumstance that it rears three broods in the year:– six, five, and three young at each time, making fourteen per annum from a single pair . . . you will readily conceive how a whole flock of Song Sparrows may in a very short time be produced . . .

I have at all times been very partial to the Song Sparrow; for although its attire is exceedingly plain,it is pleasing to hear it, in the Middle States, singing earlier in spring, and later in autumn, than almost any other bird.  Its song is sweet, of considerable duration, and performed at all hours of the day . . .

The flight of the Song Sparrow is short, and much undulated, when the bird is high in the air, but swifter and more level when it is near the ground.  They migrate by night, singly or in straggling troops . . . it is a fine, plump bird, and becomes very flat [sic] and juicy . . . they feed on grass seeds, some berries and insects, especially grasshoppers, and now and then pursue flies on the wing . . .

I have placed a pair of them on a twig of the Huckleberry Bush in blossom.  This species sometimes grows to a height of six or seven feet, and produces a fine berry in great abundance.  Huckleberries of every sort are picked by women and children, and sold in the eastern markets in great profusion.  They are used for tarts, but in my opinion are better when eaten fresh.”

–J. J. Audubon, Ornithological Biography, I (1831), 126-128 [excerpts].

“The many kind attentions which I have received from the celebrated author of the Life of Leo the Tenth, joined to the valuable advice with which I have been favoured by that excellent gentleman*[see below], has induced me to honour the little bird before you with his name.

I shot it in a deep swamp not far from the River Mississippi, in the State bearing the same name, in September 1821.  It was flitting among the top branches of a high Cypress, when I first observed it, moving sideways, searching for insects, and occasionally following one on the wing.  It uttered a single twit repeated at short intervals.  It having unexpectedly flown to a distant tree of the species on a branch of which you now see it, I followed it and shot it.  It was the only one of the kind I have ever seen, although I went to the same swamp for several days in succession.  It proved a male, and was to all appearance in perfect plumage.  The gizzard was nearly filled with very minute red insects, found on Cypress and Pines, the wings of different flies, and the heads of red ants.

In general appearance, this species so much resembles the preceding, that had not its habits differed so greatly from those of the Maryland Yellow-throat, I might have been induced to consider it as merely an accidental variety.  On examining it more closely, however, and on comparing it with that bird, I felt, as I now feel, fully confident of its being different.”

–J. J. Audubon, Ornithological Biography, I (1831), 124.

*William Roscoe (1753-1831), historian and patron of arts, was the son of a Liverpool innkeeper who eventually spent two decades in what he described as the laborious and distasteful profession of an attorney.  He also enjoyed literary and naturalist pursuits, and was a staunch abolitionist, for which he experienced much pain and suffering in his native city.  Roscoe was one of Audubon’s first champions in England, and as the first president of the Liverpool Royal Institution, he provided many valuable contacts to Audubon as the naturalist began to drum up support for his book.

“The notes of this little bird render it more conspicuous than most of its genus, for although they cannot be called very musical, they are far from being unpleasant, and are uttered so frequently during the day, that one, in walking along the briary ranges of the fences, is almost necessarily brought to listen to its whitititee, repeated three or four times every five or six minutes, the bird seldom stopping expressly to perform its music, but merely uttering the notes after it has picked an insect from amongst the leaves of the low bushes which it usually inhabits.  It then hops a step or two up or down, and begins again.

Although timid, it seldom flies far off at the approach of man, but instantly dives into the thickest parts of its favorite bushes and high grass, where it continues searching for food either along the twigs, or among the dried leaves on the ground, and renews its little song when only a few feet distant.

Its nest is one of those which the Cow Bunting (Icterus pecoris) selects, in which to deposit one of its eggs, to be hatched by the owners, that bird being similar in this respect to the European Cuckoo.  The nest, which is placed on the ground, and partly sunk in it, is now and then covered over in the form of an oven, from which circumstance children name this warbler the Oven-bird . . . it does not chase insects by flying after them, but secures them by surprise.  Caterpillars and spiders form its principal food.”

–J. J. Audubon, Ornithological Biography, I (1831), 121.

“The Purple Martin makes its appearance in the City of New Orleans from the 1st to the 9th of February . . . and is then to be seen gambolling through the air, over the city and the river, feeding on many sorts of insects, which are there found in abundance at that period.

It frequently rears three broods whilst with us. I have had several opportunities, at the period of their arrival, of seeing prodigious flocks moving over that city or its vicinity, at a considerable height, each bird performing circular sweeps as it proceeded, for the purpose of procuring food . . . at the Falls of the Ohio, I have seen Martins as early as the 15th of March, arriving in small detached parties . . . by the 25th of the same month, they are generally plentiful . . . at St. Genevieve, in the State of Missouri, they seldom arrive before the 10th or 15th of April . . . at Philadelphia, they are first seen about the 10th of April.  They reach Boston about the 25th, and continue their migration much farther north, as the spring continues to open.

. . . These birds are extremely courageous, persevering, and and tenacious of what they consider their right.  They exhibit strong antipathies against cats, dogs, and such other quadrupeds as are likely to prove dangerous to them.  They attach and chase indiscriminately every species of Hawk, Crow, or Vulture, and on this account are much patronized by the husbandman.  They frequently follow and tease an Eagle, until he is out of sight of the Martin’s box.

. . . The note of the Martin is not melodious, but is nevertheless very pleasing . . . [and is] among the first that are heard in the morning, and are welcome to the sense of every body.  The industrious farmer rises from his bed as he hears them . . . the husbandman, certain of a fine day, renews his peaceful labors with an elated heart.  The still more independent Indian is also fond of the Martin’s company.  He frequently hangs up a calabash on some twig near his camp, and in this cradle the bird keeps watch, and sallies forth to drive off the vulture that might otherwise commit depredations on the deer-skins or pieces of venison exposed to the air to be dried.  The humbled slave of the Southern States takes more pains to accommodate this favourite bird.  The calabash is neatly scooped out, and attached to the flexible top of a cane, brought from the swamp, where that plant usually grows, and placed close to his hut.  It is, alas! to him a mere memento of the freedom which he once enjoyed; and, at the sound of the horn which calls him to his labor, as he bids farewell to the Martin, he cannot help thinking how happy he should be, were he permitted to gambol and enjoy himself day after day, with as much liberty as that bird.”

–J. J. Audubon, Ornithological Biography, I (1831), 112-119.

” . . . In a word, kind reader, it is where Nature seems to have paused, as she passed over the Earth, and opening her stores, to have strewed with unsparing hand the diversified seeds from which have sprung all the beautiful and and splendid forms which I should in vain attempt to describe, that the Mocking Bird should have fixed its abode, there only that its wondrous song should be heard.

But where is that favoured land? –It is in that great continent to whose distant shores Europe has sent forth her adventurous sons, to wrest for themselves a habitation from the wild inhabitants of the forest, and to convert the neglected soil in to fields of exuberant fertility.  It is, reader, in Louisiana that these bounties of nature are in the greatest perfection. It is there that you should listen to the love-song of the Mocking Bird, as I at this moment do.

. . . Different species of snakes ascend to their nests, and generally suck the eggs or swallow the young; but on all such occasions, not only the pair to which the nest belongs, but many other Mocking Birds from the vicinity, fly to the spot, attack the reptiles, and, in some cases, are so fortunate as either to force them to retreat, or deprive them of life.”

–J. J. Audubon, Ornithological Biography, I (1831), 110-11.