The Audubon Reader (5 page)

Connected with the biography of this bird are so many incidents relative to my own, that could I with propriety deviate from my proposed method, the present volume would contain less of the habits of birds than of those of the youthful days of an American woodsman. While young I had a plantation that lay on the sloping declivities of a creek, the name of which I have already given, but as it will ever be dear to my recollection you will, I hope, allow me to repeat it—the Perkiomen. I was extremely fond of rambling along its rocky banks, for it would have been difficult to do so either without meeting with a sweet flower spreading open its beauties to the sun or observing the watchful King
fisher perched on some projecting stone over the clear water of the stream. Nay, now and then the
Fish Hawk itself, followed by a
White-headed Eagle, would make his appearance and by his graceful aerial motions raise my thoughts far above them into the heavens, silently leading me to the admiration of the sublime Creator of all. These impressive and always delightful reveries often accompanied my steps to the entrance of a small cave scooped out of the solid rock by the hand of nature. It was, I then thought, quite large enough for my study. My paper and pencils, with now and then a volume of [Maria] Edgeworth’s natural and fascinating
Tales
or LaFontaine’s
Fables
, afforded me ample pleasures. It was in that place, kind
reader, that I first saw with advantage the force of parental affection in birds. There it was that I studied the habits of the Pewee; and there I was taught most forcibly that to destroy the
nest of a bird or to deprive it of its eggs or young is an act of great cruelty.

I had observed the nest of this plain-colored Flycatcher fastened as it were to the rock immediately over the arched entrance of this calm retreat. I had peeped into it: although empty it was yet clean, as if the absent owner intended to revisit it with the return of spring. The buds were already much swelled and some of the trees were ornamented with blossoms, yet the ground was still partially covered with snow and the air retained the piercing chill of winter. I chanced one morning early to go to my retreat. The sun’s glowing rays gave a rich coloring to every object around. As I entered the cave, a rustling sound over my head attracted my attention, and on turning I saw two birds fly off and alight on a tree close by—the Pewees had arrived! I felt delighted, and fearing that my sudden appearance might disturb the gentle pair I walked off, not however without frequently looking at them. I concluded that they must have just come, for they seemed fatigued: their plaintive note was not heard, their crests were not erected and the vibration of the tail so very conspicuous in this species appeared to be wanting in power. Insects were yet few and the return of the birds looked to me as prompted more by their affection to the place than by any other motive. No sooner had I gone a few steps than the Pewees with one accord glided down from their perches and entered the cave. I did not return to it any more that day, and as I saw none about it or in the neighborhood, I supposed that they must have spent the day within it.

I concluded also that these birds must have reached this haven either during the night or at the very dawn of that morn. Hundreds of observations have since proved to me that this species always migrates
by night.

Filled with the thoughts of the little pilgrims I went early next morning to their retreat, yet not early enough to surprise them in it. Long before I reached the spot my ears were agreeably saluted by their well-known note, and I saw them darting about through the air giving chase to some insects close over the water. They were full of gaiety, frequently flew into and out of the cave and while
alighted on a favorite tree near it, seemed engaged in the most interesting converse. The light fluttering or tremulous motions of their wings, the jetting of their tail, the erection of their crest and the neatness of their attitudes all indicated that they were no longer fatigued but on the contrary refreshed and happy. On my going into the cave the male flew violently towards the entrance, snapped his bill sharply and repeatedly, accompanying this action with a tremulous rolling note the import of which I soon guessed. Presently he flew into the cave and out of it again with a swiftness scarcely credible: it was like the passing of a shadow.