NH Outside: Birds Archives

Today I watched a turkey vulture as it dipped and turned and circled over the swamp. The day was cloudy so perhaps the thermals hadn’t built up enough to enable the big bird to soar high in the sky as it usually would. I was pleased to see it so low though; I could watch it clearly with bare eyes and didn’t need to move the binoculars around the sky, trying to keep up with it.

Watching a large bird effortlessly float through the air is nothing short of awe-inspiring. Just the slightest dip of a wing and the entire bird changes direction, zooming down towards the ground to check out a dark spot that might be a road kill; another brief movement and back up it soars.

When I first started going on bird walks with experienced birders, I was thrilled to see these black specks way up in the sky.

“What’s that bird?” I asked eagerly.

The reply was a bored, “TV.” These people had seen so many turkey vultures circling around that they weren’t really interested. Another jot was made on the list and the hunt went on for more exciting birds, like the golden-crowned kinglet calling softly from a thicket.

I remained interested, however. Imagine being able to float like that, for hours at a time, gently gliding into a dip, then out again, soaring higher, then making a quick movement and a change of direction to bring myself back over the territory from a new angle.

My interest was really sparked the day an enormous black vulture with an ugly bald head swept past me at great speed, just above eye level. I suppose it had seen or smelled something dead and tasty nearby, and I had walked nearly into its path when it came down for a closer look.

Yes, I did say “dead and tasty.” They soar over fields and forests, roads and highways, to seek that unfortunate deer killed by a motor vehicle, or using their incredible sense of smell to seek out a carcass hidden by a successful predator, or a calf that died shortly after birth.

Once they’ve found a carcass, they descend immediately and begin to feast. Bird biologists believe the turkey vulture’s bald head ensures that rotting remains won’t damage feathers where the bird can’t reach to clean them. They are neither neat nor fussy eaters. Dead amphibians, reptiles and birds are just as welcome to them as domestic and wild mammals. They’ll even eat fish.

You might wonder why you’ve never seen a turkey vulture nest high in a tree. Surely a bird this large would need a very big nest. The answer is simple: they don’t bother to make nests. They lay their one to three eggs (usually two) on the ground on rocky ledges, in large crevices, in caves, or in hollow snags (dead trees). In the Northeast, they lay their eggs in May or June, and about two and a half months later the young have fledged.

Once, it was rare to see turkey vultures circling in the sky. For much of the last hundred years, the birds kept to a range more south of us than they do now. But these large birds are now increasing their range dramatically. Is a warmer climate bringing them north? Maybe the growing deer population is encouraging these carrion-eaters to move our way. We keep building more roads, and the increased traffic probably means more road kills. Perhaps these easy meals are driving the turkey vultures’ expansion.

As I watch the bird turn effortlessly, its wing tips flared out, its light-colored head easily visible against the dark body, I’m not thinking about why it’s here. Just watching it float and dip and circle is such a treat.

I think of the nature programs I’ve seen on television, with the big vultures of Africa squabbling over a dead rhino or giraffe. The scene appears exotic and far away, but right here in our own corner of the Northeast, similar scenes are repeated every day.

Just substitute a road-killed deer for the rhino-the action is the same. Turkey vultures fill an important niche in our environment, recycling the remains of dead animals. And it’s happening right outside our doors.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener
UNH Cooperative Extension

I was quite young, perhaps 10, when I found the head.

 I had by that point seen a few gruesome horror films on the sly, but my imagination couldn’t grasp an explanation for the sight of the severed head of a goldfinch impaled on the barbed wire fence at the bottom of the field. It must have been spring; the goldfinch was in his bright courtship attire. I must have looked anxiously over my shoulder.

 A decade or so later I read about shrikes, and another decade or two passed before I saw one. This winter again I’ve heard a northern shrike singing in the field across the road. Its scientific name Lanius excubitor translates to “butcher watchman.” Carolus Linnaeus, the famed father of modern taxonomy, gave this bird its name of “watchman.”

 Linnaeus was praised for developing a logical, double-name system for describing the relationships among plants based on similarities in their reproductive structures. He was apparently more patient in observing the minutiae of flora than fauna because he concluded that the shrike was taking its sentinel stance at the tops of bushes, poles, and trees to forewarn little birds of the approach of a hawk.

 Shrikes may indeed be watching for hawks in their own self-interest, but they also have a culinary interest in the songbirds. This revelation has been utterly horrifying to some bird lovers. A close look at a shrike reveals an unusual head-size-to-body ratio and a distinct raptor hook to the bill. Sweet little birds sometimes overlook this anatomical feature. It is said that the shrike will even lurk in the underbrush beckoning curious birds with pleading murmurs.

 It was an unfamiliar voice that drew my attention to the shrike, a series of not-quite-melodic phrases that go nowhere and seem not to repeat. “If perseverance deserved success, the shrike would take high marks as a singer,” wrote Frank Chapman in the 1895 Handbook of Eastern North America. It is written that both sexes will sing and, come to think of it, I wonder why this bird would be singing at all, given that its breeding home—Alaska and central Canada—is so far north?

 This wolf in sheep’s clothing has the delicate feet of any perching bird. The element of surprise and a swift knock on the back of the head secures a meal for the shrike. The word “shrike” has the same Anglo Saxon root as “shriek,” though whether the shriek comes from the shrike, the victim, or the horrified bird-fancier is not clear.

 “One has to have something of the savage in him to enjoy thoroughly the study of the shrike,” wrote Edward Brayton Clark in 1901. “As a matter of fact, the close daily observance of the bird involves some little sacrifice for the person whose nature is tempered with mercy. The shrike is essentially cruel. It is a butcher pure and simple and a butcher that knows no merciful methods in plying its trade. More than this, the shrike is the most arrant hypocrite in the whole bird calendar. Its appearance as it sits apparently sunning itself, but in reality keeping sharp lookout for prey, is the perfect counterfeit of innocence.”

 The older nature books are full of such accusations directed at this hunter. However, the shrike gives chase solely for the purpose of culling the not-so-fleet to secure food. These writers choose to forget that a human hunter often kills for mere sport or trophy.

 It isn’t every year one can find a shrike in a New England pasture. “Like the bold Norse robber barons of old, these birds come down from their Northern wilds to prey on Southern wealth,” wrote Ora Willis Knight in 1908. Ornithologists report that it is mostly the immature shrikes with faint barring of the breast that wander south in the fall and depart in the spring. In times of cyclical rodent crash in Canada, even more birds will visit and these may travel even further south into the U.S. At this time of year, this northern shrike is sating him or herself mostly with rodents.

 In its summer breeding grounds, the shrike is also known as grasshopper hawk, cricket hawk, or mouse hawk, acknowledging the main staples of its diet. Shrikes can also take a few snakes and frogs. Like a storefront butcher, a male shrike may hang a flamboyant display of fresh kill in a thorn bush or shrub to impress a prospective mate with his powers of providence. Food may be similarly cached against lean times, and this is probably the circumstance I witnessed so many years ago.

 If you should be lucky enough to glimpse one of these gray visitors, wish him or her well on the passage north come spring. Certainly we have mice to spare here this winter.

Note: A version of this article was first published in the Bradford Bridge, a community newsletter

By Ann Eldridge, UNH Cooperative Extension Wildlife Coverts Cooperator

These are the days to drink in the precious gold of autumn. As the sun slants low in the sky, the golden hues dazzle us in their brilliance. The black-eyed Susans in the garden flaunt their yellow petals at the wind, which replies by swinging them jauntily in the sunshine. Behind them, tall golden sunflowers nod their huge heads. Each day, the centers expand outward, enveloping the yellow petals until all that’s left are the seeds.

The chipmunks race up the tall stalks to stuff their cheeks with seeds. The chickadees are there too, often hanging upside down as they peck away. A bird releases one seed from its cradle then flies away to crack it open and feast. Are they the birds that have been here all summer long? Or have our birds flown south already and these are migrants from further north, happy to have found a feast to sustain them on their long journey?

Other birds are busy gathering seeds, too. Another flash of gold announces the goldfinch, and soon a small flock of finches is busy eating seedheads around the garden. I watch one bird land on a grass blade nearby and the light stalk sways nearly to the ground. Undeterred, the bird moves along to the very end of the stalk and nibbles on the seed.

The sun dazzles today. It lights up the fading black-eyed Susans and the heavily blooming sunflower stalks, and behind them, the pale gold of clumps of Karl Foerster ornamental grasses. A light breeze is music to the grass, which seems to dance with wild joy.

The goldenrod is buzzing as the bees cover the surface of each cluster of blooms. The bees seem to know that the oncoming cold will soon take the flowers, so they hurry from blossom to blossom. The bees themselves are a golden hue, as are the pouches of pollen on their legs. From sun to flower to bee to pollen, the circle of life itself is represented in the colors of this pigment we humans value so much.

I pick up a fallen maple leaf. The outer edges are a rich, deep red which subtly melds into orange and then gold. In the low sunshine, the colors speak of many things: of spring showers and slowly lengthening days, of the warmth of summer; of cool fall evenings with bright full moons.

On one edge of the leaf, a little grey spider eyes me, then hops to another part of the leaf further away. “Where will you spend the winter?” I ask him. He doesn’t answer, so I put the leaf down where I found it and hope he will survive until spring.

By Susan M. Poirier, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener

While I love gardening and swimming in the summer, watching the foliage change in the fall, and skiing and snowshoeing in the winter, there's nothing that makes me feel alive quite like the first warm days of spring. A scent calls to me, and I simply must get outside to enjoy the unique aromas of the season.

This corner of New Hampshire was buried under nearly 150 inches of snow this past winter, a record for us. Now, each day I count how many stones in the garden wall are newly visible, which trees are starting to bud out, and how much more brown earth is visible near the dirty piles of snow. Those piles are still high, but they are melting and spring is definitely here.

In one patch of earth, I notice a small flock of juncos feeding. Since they weren't here during the long winter months, I assume they've journeyed from somewhere south of us. They bustle about, finding a few stray seeds scattered by the blue jays, which roil the feeders by suddenly taking off. A robin hops along, searching for something tasty in the ground.

On my walk, I'm serenaded along the way by the red-winged blackbirds. First comes a little bell-like sound and then the wings open, flashing the distinctive red patch, and the head bends down and forward for the big "scree." Three males are dueling furiously. First one sings out and the moment he's finished, a second starts up, followed immediately by a third. Their perches are only a few feet apart. Will they really nest so closely or will one remain victorious while the others leave for new territories?

The common grackles have returned, too. Their brilliant yellow eyes stand out from their lustrous blue-black coats, shining iridescently in the sunlight. Clustering together on a tall tree, they have long and raucous discussions about what? Their recent flights north? The quality of the sunflower seeds at my feeders (duly brought in each night now that the bears are astir)? The depth of snow on the still-frozen swamp? Perhaps they, like me, are simply delighting in the warm spring air.

Nearby, great blue heron couples are choosing their nesting sites. Two of last year's nests are already taken. Refurbished a bit, they're now ready and a heron stands guard over each while the mates are off doing some fishing. Perhaps the first eggs have already been laid. A third nest is being looked over by a pair in mating plumage. They stand on the nest and peer down at it, appearing to ask: What do you think? Will this one do? I call that nest "faraway" because it's off by itself, a short distance from the remaining nests used last summer.

In another tree, two birds stand near a small pile of sticks. I watch while one flies off to a pine and pulls some foliage to spruce up their new home. When it returns, the mate calls out to him before taking the bough and carefully trying it here and then there until just the perfect spot is found. Slowly, the nest takes shape.

Although two more of last year's nests stand empty, the heron activity is far from over. A fifth pair has also chosen a new site for their nest. They've placed few shortish branches in a crotch where two limbs meet the trunk of a long-dead pine. The herons stand one above the other and peer out in different directions over the swamp. I love their looks: plumage flying off the back of the heads, bold orange bills contrasting with the blue-gray feathers.

Nearby I spot yet another pair. They stand side by side in a tree to the south of the others, looking off over the swamp. Last year's five mating couples produced fourteen young; I can hardly wait to see how many six pairs will produce this season.

Meanwhile, one small area of the swamp has freed itself of ice and snow. The opening starts at the beavers' spillway and runs out for perhaps 20 feet. I scan it for ducks, but see none. I know some have returned to the larger lakes and ponds in the surrounding areas. Perhaps soon the swamp will have enough open water to tempt a mallard pair or a beautiful hooded merganser and his mate to fly in for a rest. Or maybe a wood duck couple will discover the nesting box high in the tree on the west side of the swamp.

It's spring. They'll be here soon.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

UNH Cooperative Extension

What a remarkable world we inhabit: remarkable in that Gil and I often “remark” about some interesting event, critter, or transition in the world around us. Yet, however much we consider ourselves simply as passive observers, we still participate.

Like at the blue jay’s wake. 

My husband Gil and I live in the woods next to the White Mountain National Forest. Our home has windows. Birds crash into their own reflections there, some defending their territory, some thinking the reflected branches are yet more forest, some in what appears to be a hormone-induced tizzy during mating season. Windows kill some birds. Some survive.

We see ghostly smudges and bits of feathers on our windows, and watch as dazed birds regain their composure, shake themselves, and return to the forest. Last year we had a most incredible full-body imprint of a blue jay on a window. It looked like the Shroud of Turin. We think we would recognize that individual jay today, its image was so remarkable. 

The National Audubon’s Web site says: “Recent evidence shows that collisions with glass may be a major source of avian mortality that's widely overlooked. Experts believe that about 100 million birds die each year in collisions with buildings and skyscrapers in the U.S. and Canada alone.” Wow! More reason for awe and action.

At dusk a blue jay flew into a window on the north side of our home. It laid in the snow, stiff little legs in the air, a look of disbelief in its open eyes. Gil picked it up to toss into the woods, where it would complete the cycle of birth to decomposition. We looked at the beautiful, now-silent, formerly bullying bird, its regal pointy head, its deep blue feathers still lustrous. We pursed our lips in a moment of guilt and recognition.

Then Gil tossed the dead jay into a brushy area with glacial boulders, moss, and discarded Christmas trees. The bird landed awkwardly. We shrugged, assuming some critter would appear in the night and grab it for a quick protein blast.

The following mid-morning, a raucous ruckus stopped us in our tracks, the sound exponentially louder than the normal alarm signaling a predatory bird in the neighborhood or the announcement of refilled birdfeeders. We peered into the trees.

A blue jay sat on each tree and branch within a thirty-foot radius of the dead jay, all screaming at that stiff, still angle of blue that held their attention.

Each live bird faced the dead bird. More flew in to join the commotion. The feeders sat empty. No other birds chirped or sang or cried, as if to reserve this sacred moment for the blue jays. They blamed and shouted and pleaded. They cawed and keened and criticized.

From branches only a few feet from the ground, forty, fifty, sixty feet up, all faced their dead compatriot. Some flew in closer to the deceased, tilting their heads as if to confirm death; others remained high above, calling to yet more jays from further distances, shouting the news.

It all lasted about three minutes. It seemed much longer. We stood, frozen, awestruck. We think forty or fifty blue jays attended the wake. When it ended, it ended abruptly. The forest went silent. Eerie.

One by one, the jays flew off. Then a chickadee chirped, a finch flitted to a feeder, and the forest regained normalcy. The dead blue jay has since been overlooked, forgotten, ignored, left to decompose with brittle blue spruce carcasses, quietly back into the earth.

Gil thinks the jays were confused and were either encouraging the dead bird to get up or running impact trajectories about how the bird had bounced that far from the window.

I think they knew the bird was dead. I can’t help but anthropomorphize. I think that community of jays gathered for a mourning ritual and cawed a eulogy.

Gil and I eavesdropped through the keening and cawing at the blue-jay’s wake, despite our guilt, despite knowing our home’s windows had killed a territorial and assertive blue jay, and numerous uneulogized chickadees, titmice, and finches. We even ate the grouse that broke its neck last winter.

This weekend we installed window coverings to reduce heat loss from our home. The Audubon Society recommends shades with a white backing like ours to decrease the reflectivity of windows and minimize  crashing incidents like the one that killed the jay. Our shades look good, save energy, cover the smudged windows, and—we  hope—will improve the longevity of our avian neighbors.

I say, if we are here to live, really live, we need to do all we can to minimize our impact on neighboring communities of other species. We need to acknowledge and respect our surroundings, with wonder and joy, some guilt, but mostly with awe.

By Laura Richardson, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener

I found it! For years, I've been searching every woodpecker hole in every dead or live tree I could reach. All the books say that many birds use woodpecker holes for nesting sites, but I'd never found a nest in a hole.

I've seen many nests built in crotches of trees, including one I noticed only because a brilliant male scarlet tanager flew right in front of me and up into the nest to feed his young. I've seen nests in bird houses I've put out and robins' nests on the jut-out of the dining-room bay window under the shelter of the porch roof.

The phoebes also like the tops of our outside spotlights and frequently nest there. Once I found the nest of a northern Baltimore oriole out in the middle of the swamp. But a nest in a tree hollow carved out by woodpeckers? No, never. Until yesterday.

We've had wonderful snow for snowshoeing and cross-country skiing this winter, but the surplus of white stuff has meant hours of clearing. By the time I've shoveled the paths to the woodpile and bird feeders, cleared the decks and porch, created paths for my little dogs, pulled snow off the porch roof, I'm too tired to get out there and enjoy the snow.

Yesterday, however, I stole some time. I'd donned snowshoes to get behind the woodpile to clear it off from the back. While working, I noticed that the snow had covered the top of the fence in one area, so when I finished, I headed out into the woods. They were so lovely still, peaceful, the snow clinging to many branches. I could walk everywhere since the fallen trees, small boulders, stone walls, and low shrubs were covered in snow.

I followed a path made by a deer, trekking over to a large, dead tree to check it out. This tree must have been a monster in life. It had at least four trunks, one which showed signs of someone attempting to cut it with a saw 10 feet above the ground. One of the trunks lay buried under the snow. The bark was gone, and I could see many tunnels made by grubs and holes made by woodpeckers. I searched carefully, but no sign of a nest.

Out onto the swamp I went. On my last visit, I'd noticed an odd hole, with dirty footprints all around it but none leading to or away from it. Some creature must have come up from under the snow, looked around, and headed back inside. After the most recent 10-inch snowfall, however, there was only a small opening under a dead tree to see.

Up above, the five heron nests, piled high with snow. stood out starkly from their tree supports. I hope that somewhere down south the heron pairs and their 14 young are feeding well and enjoying the warmth and sunshine. Next month, the first arrivals should be here, scouting out the territory and choosing the best nest site. I'm glad these nests are all still intact. A few additional branches to refurbish, and they'll be all set for a new crop of squabbling youngsters.

A hairy woodpecker flew nearby and began working on a tree. Bits of bark and wood flew out and fell onto the snow below. The dead evergreens seemed almost alive again with green moss hanging from each branch. I love to look at the dead trunks. Stripped now of bark, they reveal the twists and turns each tree made as it reached for the sun, shifted slightly to one side to grow around another, repaired the damage from a broken limb. One tree in particular was covered with knobs formed when the tree grew out over a stub. Little insect holes filled the trunk as well as one or two larger ones made by the birds.

I moved to a new area and noticed a broad snag about eight feet tall. The lower portion was nearly hollow and above, at eye level, was a large hole clearly bored by a woodpecker. I peeked inside and there it was,a beautiful bird's nest.

Snow had filled the nest's cavity so I carefully removed it to see the construction of the nest itself. Dried mud and grasses formed a perfect circle. The inside was as smooth as a carefully sanded, turned wooden bowl. The nest was large, at least as large as the ones the robins build above our window. The birds had carefully selected an opening which faced east, avoiding both the heat of the summer sun and the winds of the north and west. Perfect.

I noted the location of that tree. In the spring and summer, I won't be able to see the opening from the shore, but I'll be able to watch for adult birds flying in and out of the nest. I'm curious to know what species built the nest. Now that I've found it, I'm going to enjoy it.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener, UNH Cooperative Extension

It was a perfect winter day. On the horizon, the clear blue sky was bordered by a narrow ruffle of puffy clouds. Eight inches of powdery snow covered the ground. The temperature was cool, but the warming sun pulled me outside. I dressed quickly, eager for whatever I might find in the fresh, crisp air.

I trudged out past the bird feeders and along the path which runs between the stone walls of the vegetable and daylily gardens, down the hill, and through the gate in the fence. I was headed, as always, for the swamp to see what I might find on this beautiful day. As I walked along the fence, I saw that I’d had company sometime before this morning’s light snowfall. There along the outside of the fence were the tracks of a bobcat. The new snow had partially filled them in, but the size and spacing convinced me that the big cat had been prowling along our fence once again. Whether it comes in the fine weather or not I don’t know. I suppose it might walk all around the swamp to get to this fence. I’ve no real way of knowing, but every winter, once the snow has fallen, I know by its tracks that it’s come across the ice to patrol here once again.

I followed the tracks down the hill and into the swamp, but a step or two quickly convinced me that the ice just wasn’t ready yet for my weight. As my eyes followed the cat’s tracks across the ice, I wished I’d thought to bring along the camera. The beavers’ lodge was so lovely with its cloak of snow. The orange-topped surveyor’s stake, which the beavers had appropriated to add to their home, was covered now with white and looked from here like just another branch.

I walked further along the swamp’s edge, and I suddenly startled a dozen doves. Off they flew with a call of alarm so unlike their normal mourning coo. Their explosion from the tree where they’d been resting masked a tap-tap-tapping sound which I’d not noticed before. Once the birds were gone, I followed the sound with my eyes until I found a hairy woodpecker on a tall, narrow tree.  

The woodpecker’s beautiful black and white coloration, as well as its large size, is always a marvel to me. This one, a female, lacked her mate’s brilliant red patch on the back of the head. Still, the wide white streak down the center of her back was perfectly balanced by the white and black stripes of her wings. Down the trunk she came, probing, listening, tapping here and there. After she worked her way down about five feet, she returned to her starting point and moved a few inches over to repeat the track. Down and up, tail pressed tightly against the smooth bark, head cocked to one side and then another before the strong bill drilled in to test the wood for succulent insects.

Where does she hide when the temperatures drop down into the low digits? I presume she has a favorite hole somewhere to snuggle down in. Today, in the brilliant sunshine making its way through the leafless trees, she stands out with clarity and beauty.

A few moments later, something startled the doves from their new resting place, and once more they burst forth with their danger call. A chickadee nearby picked up the alarm and warned others of my presence. “Chick–a-dee-dee-dee.” I read recently what scientists have learned: the number of “dees” a bird calls indicates the type of danger.

“Hey,” I called softly to it. “Don’t you recognize me? I’m the one who fills the feeder with sunflower hearts!”

I love the chickadees. Not only are they such lovely small beings, but they are the politest of birds at the feeders, taking only one seed before flying away to consume it. This one left me after a moment or two and headed back to the feeder for another morsel.

With a sigh, I realized that I had to follow suit. Reluctantly I left the world of beauty, of nature, of outside and returned to the house. “I’ll be back,” I promised both myself and the woods. I know I will. I’ll be beckoned again, and I’ll answer.

 By: Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

Resolved to avoid the usual holiday stress, I arose one morning recently and planned my day around wrapping Christmas presents. I decided to get out and fill the bird feeders first. Recent snow had coated the ground with almost a foot of light powder and the chickadees were getting impatient. A bucket of black oil sunflower seeds, a few ears of Indian corn saved from this year’s harvest, and I was ready to roll.

As I was filling the feeders hanging on an old lilac bush, the chickadees arrived above me and scolded hungrily. Plodding through the snow, I crossed the yard to a wooden feeder mounted on an old pine stump. This feeder has a roof and is a favorite of blue jays and squirrels, both red and gray. The stump is on uneven ground, so I need to stretch and balance precariously to reach the feeder and pour in seeds and cobs of dried corn.

A slight sound above my head made me look up; an owl flew slowly and silently from a branch just overhead to a tree not too far away. With my eyes locked on the owl, I finished refilling the bird feeder.

The owl continued to perch and watch me as I backed away silently, wondering how much time it would take to run in the house and get the binoculars before it flew away. When I returned, the owl had flown back to its original branch, assured that it was now safe to begin its vigil anew.

I had noticed that in flight it appeared to be a light, creamy beige with touches of a golden brown. In addition, streaks of brown ran vertically down its lighter chest, and under its beak, a band of checkered brown and cream feathers formed a thick ruff about the neck.

Perched with its back to me, its large dark eyes peered first to its left and then its right, head turning to look in my direction, which gave the illusion of a full, 180 degree revolution. For the next three and one half hours, it remained on its watch; apparently, a bird feeder can feed more than the seed eaters on my list.

Suddenly, the owl’s tail lifted and its wings opened; it dove below the feeder and slipped gracefully into the space created between a log and the several inches of new snow. For a few seconds, the owl disappeared, only to reappear suddenly as it emerged from the trough. It sat a few minutes in the snow with a mouse like tail hanging from its beak. Lunch soon over, it flew back to its perch.

What a photo op! Would this owl with its presidential like stature stay long enough to pose? I made another mad scramble to retrieve my camera, and, sure enough, the stately bird posed as patiently as a New Hampshire presidential primary candidate, turning its head first left, then right, then swiveling to look directly behind itself.

I don’t know when the owl left, but it couldn’t have been long before dark because both my husband and I continued to check every chance we had, and it was there until the light faded.

Needless to say, I didn’t get much gift wrapping done. At some point during the afternoon, I checked my bird book and discovered that this was a Barred Owl, the one who calls, “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?”

Checking the reports of recent New Hampshire bird sightings at Virtual Birder (www.virtualbirder.com/bmail/nhbirds/latest.html), I discovered that Barred Owls are more plentiful in New Hampshire this winter than in years past and learned this may be due to a crash in the red backed vole population in Canada, which forced the owls to move south for food. Barred Owls typically hunt at night, but under stress, hungry owls will hunt during the day.

Knowing that hunger may have driven this bird to my backyard adds a bittersweet tinge to my owl sighting. Hopefully, the owl will survive the winter here by finding all the voles that plague my garden.

If I stop and think back on this day, my neglected to do list didn’t get any shorter, but my list of memorable moments did get longer.

By Helen Downing, Community Tree Steward

A pair of white ducks appeared in our neighborhood pond in August. Each time we drove by, we saw them reveling in their element, bottoms up, foraging for food or just swimming around unimpeded in the pond.

It was obvious these weren’t wild ducks, accustomed to the seasonal comings and goings of nature’s cycles. They were domestic ducks, unable to fly or to defend themselves from predators. Still, they survived happily in the pond in late summer.

As fall approached, several of the neighbors joined us in concern for their fate. My grandsons, with their mother, brought food and the ducks welcomed them and even seemed to anticipate the children’s visits complete with handouts. These ducks were used to human beings. No doubt they had been adorable, fluffy ducklings at Easter time. But by the end of summer, the charming babies had grown to full grown ducks, perhaps a bit aggressive and needing accommodations that some suburban family couldn’t provide. Were they then abandoned to fend for themselves, without thought for their ultimate fate? Did parents persuade their children, and perhaps themselves, that the ducks would live happily ever after in our neighborhood pond?

September passed, and then as October moved on, the neighborhood became increasingly concerned. The ducks themselves grew more dependent on the children’s provisions. We all knew if we did nothing these two couldn’t survive once the pond froze over. They would become dinner for someone, if not for Mr. Fox, then for the coyotes or a fisher.

So, one day the children and their mother arrived at our barn with the ducks in the back of the Subaru. The female had been easily captured, but the drake was skittish. The timely arrival of a neighbor saved the day and the pair came to their adopted home in a pen by the barn.

We wondered how they would get on with our ancient Chinese geese noisy creatures but otherwise harmless. A single Indian runner drake shares their pen. (His mate succumbed to a weasel last winter I found her headless carcass in the pen one snowy morning.) What would they think of these new arrivals?

As it turned out, the ducks were welcomed and moved in without incident. They may have missed the freedom of the pond, but they were glad to have food and shelter as winter approached and the cold intensified. Each morning I broke the ice in their water pans, and all drank gratefully.

No sooner had the days begun noticeably to lengthen, in late February or early March, than a white egg appeared in the shelter. Every day, through the spring and early summer, Mrs. Duck produced a single egg. We used them in various ways they are rich and tasty. We saved a half dozen for the nearby Montessori pre school that likes to hatch some chicks or ducks each spring in their incubator. Some of these orphans come back to our farm, either to lay eggs or to find their way to the freezer in the fall.

Sure enough, after 28 days of incubation, the duck eggs hatched, producing four fluffy ducklings. School was over, so home they came to our “nursery.” When they outgrew the small nursery pen, we introduced them to the ducks and geese at the barn. Mrs. Goose decided on motherhood so enthusiastically that she crushed one of them. Another succumbed to her over protective instincts; she was too big and her size overwhelmed them. The others were returned to a safer pen, and after a few weeks we tried again to integrate the little flock of water fowl. This time the Indian Runner drake proved such an ardent lover that the poor ducklings were tattered and thoroughly intimidated by his attentions. So they are back in a safe haven for now, and we shall have roast duck in the fall.

Such a responsibility we assume for our fellow creatures even if we will eventually eat them! And the parent ducks, rescued from the pond, will survive another winter to produce eggs. The children at the Montessori school can again experience the miracle of tiny ducklings emerging from their shells. We’ll make egg salad of the rest.

By Carolyn Baldwin, Community Tree Steward

The sharp, raspy call introduced a certain harshness into the otherwise peaceful solitude of an early November afternoon. I had been enjoying the stillness as I sat on my patio, neatly tucked into the space where the floor of the sun porch met the rear wall of my Cape Cod-style home.

The call came again…chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee. I directed my eyes to the arbor on my left and looked up into the yellowing leaves clinging to the hardy-kiwi vine. There on the vine, perched in a defiant stance better suited for a larger, more intimidating bird, the black-capped chickadee once more sounded the call, which seemed directed solely toward me and which seemed to be chastising me for having failed to perform some duty.

Just behind the chickadee hung the brown, metal bird feeder. “It’s empty,” I thought. “I put out the last load of black-oil sunflower seed before the end of March.” Could this bird be one of those who spent a good part of the past winter feeding here? If so, he (or she) must remember and realize that I am the person responsible for filling it.”

I scanned the area for other chickadees, thinking perhaps that this one was calling to family members, rather than actually trying to influence me. But he was alone and none of his species, or any other species, responded to the call.

“Very curious,” I thought. “I’ll have to remember to pick up some more seed.”

Days went by. I completed several shopping trips without remembering to pick up food for my avian neighbors. But the chickadee, being considerably younger and hungrier than I, persisted.

A week later, we replayed the scene on the patio. I sat and he complained. Of course, I assumed it was the same individual bird, though it could have been another. To me, chickadees look and sound alike, and their quickness and smallness make it difficult to spot any unique characteristics. However, the message was clear: if I didn’t refill the feeder soon, there would be consequences.

In all seriousness, I didn’t fear the wrath of a lone chickadee. It was more compassion than fear that motivated me to respond to the threat. Besides, the black-capped chickadee is such a loveable creature. Most New Englanders admire these creatures for their daring, precision and crowd-pleasing antics.

Necessity found me at the store the next day, and the bird-badgering had occurred recently enough to joggle a few brain cells into recalling the need for sunflower seeds. I managed to get the 25-lb sack into the car and back to the house where the empty bird feeder hung. The seed, being bulky and not immediately necessary, sat on the passenger-side of the front seat for a couple more days. Then, once again I was reminded by the tiny-but-vocal bird, with a black patch appearing like a perfectly-aligned toupee, that it was time to act.

It was dusk before I found it convenient to fill the feeder. The following afternoon, I glanced out the window in the kitchen and noticed a significant amount of avian activity at the feeder. The chickadees would flit in, grab a seed and retreat to the kiwi vine. The finches tended to secure the perch and remain on the feeder, selecting seed, until forced off by more aggressive individuals.

I wondered how the word spread so quickly that there was now food at the site. Who discovered it, and how was the discovery communicated to the others?

Later, I assumed my customary post near the feeder on my patio chair to catch the fleeting warmth of late afternoon sun. I’d put on thick socks under my open-toed sandals to protect against the cool cement surface of the patio slab. I crossed my legs with the right ankle resting on my left knee, admired what remained of the autumn foliage, and contemplated the stack of cordwood in the yard.

My reverie was disturbed suddenly by a flutter of tiny wings as a lone chickadee dropped from my roof and flew directly toward me. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him approach and land directly on the tip of my large toe. He perched there for several seconds, seemingly aware that I was alive and not a mere statue.

At first, I felt pleased to share this moment with such a loveable creature, sure that he was honoring me for having supplied the life-sustaining seed. Then suddenly, it became clear to me that my status as master over the lowly chickadee was being called into question.

Could that look in his steely, dark eye convey more than simple appreciation for my kindness? Perhaps the chickadee meant to deliver a warning that future neglect might result in punishment—a sharp peck on my toe, for instance.

This episode will give me something to ponder as I dutifully fill the feeder during the frigid winter days ahead.

Robert Powell Hughes, UNH Cooperative Extension Community Marine Docent

For Christmas my grandsons (with some help from their Dad) made me a bird feeder. The design is simple: an open frame about a foot square with a screen on the bottom, suspended from the four corners by cords that attach to a loop about two feet above the frame.
           
We hung the feeder on a small branch of a young beech tree, high enough so we could just reach to fill it, high enough (we hoped) to be out of reach of the deer, and far enough from the trunk to discourage the cat from exploiting the situation. The south-facing windows both upstairs and down provide a front row seat for observers. We poured a couple of quarts of sunflower seeds onto the screen and awaited the verdict of the intended beneficiaries.

In no time a flock of finches arrived. They mobbed the feeder, and those who couldn’t get the first bite waited impatiently, an unruly crowd pushing and shoving, a flying dance among the branches. The tree, in midwinter, sprouted feathered leaves, flying off all at once for no apparent reason, only as far as the adjacent maple. Soon they were back, twittering and competing for a place at the banquet.

Chickadees and tufted titmice hang around, taking a turn when the finches depart for a spell. Occasionally a nuthatch visits, although he seems to prefer the fancier and less crowded feeder outside the kitchen window.
           
Watching the finches is endlessly fascinating. On my window is a small feeder, only large enough for two or at most three birds at a time. Sometimes one will decide he is king of the castle and aggressively defend his throne, even sacrificing opportunities to feed as he fends off interlopers. But eventually he also flies off, and another, and yet another take his place. The little feeder requires frequent replenishment.
           
Winter is a special time on our hill. When the leaves drop in October, the view changes markedly. Sunrise, masked in summer by the foliage, can be dramatic, and it comes late enough that 7:00 a.m. risers like me can enjoy it. The distant hills and small lakes become visible. The lakes, blue before they freeze over, later appear as white, open spaces.

We who love winter are thought a bit odd by those who complain endlessly of the cold, snow and ice. But the changing seasons are a source of constant wonder. No other season offers anything that compares with the brightness of a moonlit night on fresh snow. Shadows of the bare trees create a chiaroscuro on the open field. The structure of the landscape is visible from the road—stone walls, icy streams, boulders. The fields of 19th century farmers reveal themselves, although most are overgrown now, often with mature trees.
           
A true sign of spring, in mid-February, is activity in the sugar bush. A warm sunny day brings the sap up in the maple trees, and sugar makers get ready for the year’s first harvest. Deer trails course through the forest, reminding us of the constant life that inhabits what may seem a dead landscape.
           
The goldfinches, mobbing my feeders, begin to discard their drab winter plumage for their yellow garments, in preparation for spring rituals. The chickadee whistles his spring song, sometimes even on a warm day in January. The piliated woodpecker loudly declares his territory with a persistent drumbeat and occasional screech. Neighbors report flocks of robins, and even a bluebird is heard by the beginning of March.
           
Last year’s cold, snowy March brought January (and the mobs of finches) back in earnest. But it brought the sun, brighter and warmer, shining through the south facing windows, giving the furnace and wood stove a rest four several hours during the day.

I know the snow will melt, the skis will return to the basement, and the streams will awaken, roaring through the sugar bush. Making an expedition to check the sap lines becomes an adventure with a sometimes soggy interlude.

Spring birds will return in earnest, and the finches will find food in the forest, while newcomers, the red-breasted grosbeak and the oriole, will honor my offerings, joining the ever-present chickadees and nuthatches and the charming tufted-titmouse.

By Carolyn Baldwin, UNH Cooperative Extension Wildlife Coverts Cooperator

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

Date

A pair of white ducks appeared in our neighborhood pond in August. Each time we drove by, we saw them reveling in their element, bottoms up foraging for food or just swimming around unimpeded in the pond.

It was obvious that these were not wild ducks, accustomed to the seasonal comings and goings of nature’s cycles. They were domestic ducks, unable to fly or to defend themselves from predators. Still, they survived happily in the pond in late summer.

As fall approached, several of the neighbors joined us in concern for their fate. My grandsons, with their mother, brought food and the ducks welcomed them and even seemed to anticipate the children’s visits complete with handouts. These ducks were used to human beings. No doubt they had been adorable, fluffy ducklings at Easter time. But by the end of summer, the charming babies had grown to full-grown ducks, perhaps a bit aggressive, and needing accommodations that some suburban family could not provide. Were they then abandoned to fend for themselves, without thought for their ultimate fate? Did parents persuade their children, and perhaps themselves, that the ducks would live happily ever after in our neighborhood pond?

September passed, and then as October moved on, the neighborhood became increasingly concerned. The ducks themselves grew more dependent on the children’s provisions. We all knew that if we did nothing these two could not survive once the pond froze over. They would become dinner for someone, if not for Mr. Fox, then for the coyotes or a fisher.

So, one day the children and their mother arrived at our barn with the ducks in the back of the Subaru. The female had been easily captured, but the drake was skittish. The timely arrival of a neighbor saved the day and the pair came to their adopted home in a pen by the barn.

We wondered how they would get on with our ancient Chinese geese—noisy creatures but otherwise harmless. A single Indian-runner drake shares their pen. (His mate succumbed to a weasel last winter—I found her headless carcass in the pen one snowy morning.) What would they think of these new arrivals?

As it turned out, the ducks were welcomed and moved in without incident. They may have missed the freedom of the pond, but they were glad to have food and shelter as winter approached and the cold intensified. Each morning I broke the ice in their water pans, and all drank gratefully.

No sooner had the days begun noticeably to lengthen, in late February or early March, than a white egg appeared in the shelter. Every day, through the spring and early summer, Mrs. Duck produced a single egg. We used them in various ways—they are rich and tasty. We saved a half dozen for the nearby Montessori pre-school that likes to hatch some chicks or ducks each spring in their incubator. Some of these orphans come back to our farm, either to lay eggs or to find their way to the freezer in the fall.

Sure enough, after 28 days of incubation, the duck eggs hatched, producing four fluffy ducklings. School was over, so home they came to our “nursery”. When they outgrew the small nursery pen, we introduced them to the ducks and geese at the barn. Mrs. Goose decided on motherhood, so enthusiastically that she crushed one of them. Another succumbed to her over-protective instincts—she was too big and her size overwhelmed them. The others were returned to a safer pen, and after a few weeks we tried again to integrate the little flock of water fowl. This time the Indian Runner drake proved such an ardent lover that the poor ducklings were tattered and thoroughly intimidated by his attentions. So they are back in a safe haven for now, and we shall have roast duck in the fall.

Such a responsibility we assume for our fellow creatures—even if we will eventually eat them! And the parent ducks, rescued from the pond, will survive another winter to produce eggs. The children at the Montessori school can again experience the miracle of tiny ducklings emerging from their shells. We’ll make egg salad of the rest.

By Carolyn Baldwin, UNH Cooperative Extension Community Tree Steward

I put a woodpecker to bed every summer evening at Big Dan Hole Pond. As the daylight begins to fade and the pond quiets to mirror the lavender sky overhead, I can hear the “Pick! Pick!” of the hairy woodpecker as she wends her way through the trees along the shoreline to find her nighttime sleeping cavity.

She usually appears from the east, probing loose pieces of bark for insects on the birches, maples, oaks and beeches that grow within the nearest twenty feet of the shoreline. As she hitches from one tree to the next she gets closer to the gnarled, partially hollow core of a beech tree that stands about fifteen feet away from the shoreline and within view of my cabin.

The hollow beech is riddled with holes and pockmarks and has long since lost its top. Although it looks as if it’s about to fall over, a curious push from me one afternoon proved its worthiness to stand up to a few more winters. When I knock on it, I can hear the hollow ringing inside, slightly muffled by whatever contents wild creatures have stashed inside its cavities. It possesses about ten or eleven holes, most of them on the eastern and southeastern side of the twenty-foot high ghost of a beech tree.

Visitors have often asked me, “Going to clean up that mess?” as they nod to the old beech. “Nope,” I reply. “That’s where woodpeckers make their homes.” Sometimes people look at me strangely, but most often they ask more about the woodpeckers and where they live.

Most people understand that woodpeckers raise their young in tree cavities, but few understand that woodpeckers live in trees all year round and depend on us to keep their homes from destruction. The lakeside along my property on Dan Hole Pond is festooned with naturally made woodpecker houses, and the undeveloped shoreline provides habitat for bullfrogs, duck families and snakes, as well as for woodpeckers.

And woodpeckers recycle their homes. What starts out as a flicker cavity, for example, may be taken over another year by a pair of noisy Great Crested Flycatchers, magnificent yellow and green birds who raise their young to the sound of their policeman’s-whistle call and adorn the insides of their tree holes with snake skins.

Other large woodpeckers, such as the Pileated, will use a tree cavity for a few years, and if it is nearby a large standing pool of water like a stream or pond, it will be taken over by a wood duck to incubate its young. Once hatched, the ducklings make the long drop to the water and safety on board their mother .

Small rotting birch stubs will be excavated by downy woodpeckers and chickadees for raising their young. On winter nights whole family groups of chickadees will crowd down inside a cavity to sleep warmly inside. Once the rising sun hits the tree and warms it, the inhabitants will emerge, sleepy and dopey, to begin their daily rounds for a breakfast of insects.

Downy Woodpeckers don’t normally roost communally like chickadees. But one frosty winter morning I heard the muffled calls of Downy Woodpeckers and watched in fascination as three Downies sleepily emerged one by one from a birch cavity into the sub-zero dawn

I like watching this female hairy woodpecker go to bed at night. As she lands on the beech, she circles a few times, all the while exclaiming, “Pick! Pick!” And then nearly quicker than the eye can see, she will disappear into the tree cavity. Muffled “Picks!” follow for a minute or two, and then all is quiet. The woodpecker sleeps safely for another night.

By Cynthia A. Melendy, UNH Cooperative Extension Lakes Lay Monitor

A sunny morning after the recent ice storm when the thermometer hovered around zero and I couldn’t get out for my morning run, I contented myself with enjoying the ice-palace scenery out the window. Happily, some birds had survived the freezing rain, ice and the zero nighttime temperature, and swooped to the feeder that hangs just a foot from the back window. Perky little chickadees and tufted titmice braved the bitter cold, with no obvious signs of hypothermia.

I stayed inside because I learned the hard way that breathing in such cold air leads to a sore throat. But here were these miraculous little creatures fluttering about normally, using up tons of energy both to stay warm and to fly. Just imagine the wind chill of flight!

Obviously, they needed more food for energy after the bitter night and headed for the feeder as soon as the sun was out. The fluffy, puffy titmice flew about in a normal way, while the chickadees hid under shrubs and darted up to the feeder for a quick mouthful and then scooted back under the bushes. Both birds stood on the frozen feeder to retrieve the seeds. Their thin little legs and feet looked and functioned normally—no signs of frostbite on their toes. Their beaks worked okay, too—no frostbite there, either.

I learned a lot about birds’ winter survival strategies from the book Winter World: The Ingenuity of Animal Survival,by Bernd Heinrich. Heinrich explains that birds, especially chickadees, maintain a very high daytime body temperature of up to 108 degrees F. Talk about warm-blooded! They need an enormous amount of food to sustain their high energy output and their high body heat. They must eat all day to store enough fat (up to 10 percent of their body weight) to get them through the cold winter nights.

Chickadees’ downy feathers thicken up in the fall. When fluffed up in the bitter cold, their feathers add an inch of insulation around the tiny little bodies that weigh but 10-12 grams. At night they ball up, tucking their heads under their wings. Also, they lower their body temperature to about 85 degrees F. to conserve energy, and sleep inside cavities, maybe snuggled up with other birds.

Other unique adaptations enable winter birds to survive sudden cold snaps. Their circulatory systems pump the warmest blood to their feet to keep them from freezing. To do this, their tiny little hearts can beat up to 600 beats a minute (who counted?) Also, they shiver to maintain their body temperature, although the trembling is hidden by their feathers. This is a way of converting muscle energy into heat, and how they warm up in the morning.
 
Cold rain is their worst enemy. Wet feathers lose their insulating value. To waterproof themselves, chickadees use their beaks to squeeze oil from glands on their backs, with which they coat the protective back and wing feathers that they then spread over their bodies like an umbrella.

But most incredibly, chickadees hoard food in the fall. In fact, a region of their brains gets bigger in the fall to increase their memories, so they aren’t wasting energy looking for lost stashes of food. Now there’s a survival trick we’d all like to borrow!

When out enjoying the bracing winter sunshine, whether skiing on mountain tops, or snowshoeing in the woods, we hardly give these common little birds a second glance, but they are truly wondrous creatures. Say “Hello” to the next one you see and spend a minute watching its busy survival behaviors.

By Anne Krantz, Community Tree Steward & Master Gardener                                             

 2/15/07

In late May, I glanced out my dining room window and noticed a pair of geese snuggled in the grass in my front lawn. The grass was tall due to the spring rains that didn’t stop long enough for me to mow. The geese found it perfect for a relaxing afternoon. They looked peaceful sitting there close together, enjoying the break in the rain.

In the nine years I’ve lived here, this was the first time I’ve had geese on my property. The large wetland in back of my house is home to a blended family of three adult geese and more than a dozen goslings, but the pair in my yard wasn’t part of that family.

A day or two later, I was sitting on my couch reading. Something caught my eye outside, so I glanced up and was startled to see a goose head peering into my living room. Then a second head appeared! These birds are large! I’d heard that geese will chase and attack people, so I found it a bit unsettling to see two of them peering into my house.

The geese made my front yard their home for two-and-a-half weeks. I never saw or heard them arrive. One moment the yard was empty and the next, the pair of geese would be there, walking, pecking at the ground, sitting, or simply standing and staring at the house.

As each day passed I became more unsettled. How long were they going to stay? Why were they here? Were they aunt and uncle to the blended family in the wetland area out back? Was my yard the cheap motel they could stay at while visiting? I saw only one pair of geese in my yard this entire time; it was nice they didn’t invite their friends and family over.

I wasn’t about to try to scare them off my property, since I still felt a bit fearful of them. They weren’t harming anything, just silently appearing each morning and hanging around for most of the day. My uneasiness turned into acceptance the first time I saw the geese leave my lawn.

The male, the bigger of the two, tossed his head up and down and gave a loud “whohnk,” telling the female he was ready to head off for the day. He positioned himself at a point in the yard. She looked at him, paused as if to make him wait longer, then walked to his side. They judged the distance for their runway by backing up. He “whohnked” again and she replied with her own “whohnk.” Then he would talk, then she, the repetitions coming faster between them for half a dozen repetitions.

Finally, she would start to run and he started a step after. They ran a short distance, no more than 30 feet, then lifted themselves into the air, she first and he a moment after to guard the rear, all the while still “whohnking” to each other. It was a sight to behold.

Usually they headed off in a southwesterly direction. Once or twice they went southeast. Seeing them take off was mesmerizing. I became like Pavlov’s dog. When I heard the first “whohnk,” I’d race to a front window. Watching them launch never got boring. I had an especially awe- inspiring moment the day I was on the second floor of my home when they took off and barely cleared my three-story house as they flew over. Their feet always hung down until they were over the house and well on their way. I could watch them from the back windows and see them fly for a distance, tuck their feet into their bellies, and “whohnk” until they reached their flying altitude.

Geese mate for life. I envied this pair their camaraderie. One would always be standing guard while the other grazed on clover from the lawn, slept, or walked around. The male seemed to be doing most of the guarding, while the female did whatever she wanted. I wondered when he ate and slept. The birds were always aware of the other. It had to be through body language. I could tell when I was noticed – the stance of the guard goose changed into one of stiffness and staring at me.

They were fun to watch, this couple. I admired the possessiveness of their union, their long-term commitment to each other. Since geese tend to return to places they know, I hope to see them again next spring.

11/29/06

With my busy schedule, it’s hard to find time to do the things that keep me sane. One of the most important things is having time to write. Sometimes I have to get up at 4:00 a.m. to make it a part of the day.

I love mornings and I love writing, but I hate getting out of bed. Lately I’ve had a little friend helping me, a song sparrow I call Freddie. He starts singing shortly after my alarm clock gets mauled into silence.
 
Freddie likes to sit on the duck house that sits right next to my vegetable garden. That’s how he and I became acquainted in the first place. I was sitting barefoot in the sun-warmed dirt a few weeks ago, fussing around my tomato plants. He was making the rounds, broadcasting from all the best perches in his range. How could I ignore this gorgeous little man-bird, singing?

He throws his head back, open mouth to the sky, puffs out his stripey little chest and sings with such gusto you think he might burst. In the middle of one song in particular (he has several variations on each of about five different themes), his little throat pumps like a piston with each note. Sweet Sweet suh-suh-suh-suh swinger…he sings, and then one of the neighbor birds might sing to answer. If he starts a song buck buck buckee, but hears another bird, he stops short and listens. Then he might sing: “I’m singing on top of the duck house”, or “I’m singing in a rose bush in the field.”

Freddie sings from one end of my day right through to the other. Lying in bed the other night, my eyes were scrunched shut against the lingering summer sunshine, but my ears couldn’t shut out Freddie. I began to realize that I could identify the base song, and when he switched to a different one. (It’s not as easy as it might sound. He may sing the same base, but with added notes, a chopped ending, or variations in the middle. They seem classifiable by their beginnings. I’ve transcribed the Do-Wah series, the Do-Wee series, the Buck-Buckee series, the Sweet-Sue and the Sweet-Sweet series.) 

First, he would sing one song 20 or so times, then switch to another for about the same amount of time, then another. Sometimes he would sing each only a few times before switching, as if unsatisfied with the results. At one point though, he stayed on one in particular, which I transcribed Do-Wah Do-Wah sh’bop sh’bop Ringo-o-o-o-o. He sang it almost identically over and over and over again. I wondered if he were having a bit of a border dispute with a neighbor, vocally duking it out. 

It amazes me that simply paying a little attention to one small brown bird can open my ears to so much more in the world. When I first realized I was hearing his songs as something with meaning, without trying to transcribe them or understand them, it was like I’d been touched with a magic wand. Suddenly I felt like scientist and shaman all rolled into one: I had listened and taken notes and watched and listened some more, and I could tell when something was up out there. Fred could actually startle me by singing something out of the ordinary.

More than that though, Fred has given me Song Sparrow Awareness. Weeding a garden 20 miles from here, I hear a song sparrow on his perch and without thinking I note when he switches songs or continues with the same one for an extraordinary length of time, and when he moves from perch to perch in his territory.

I’m going to miss Freddie when he leaves for winter. I wonder if he’ll be back next year. Will I recognize him? Yesterday and today he has been behaving very differently. He has sung only infrequently, and not once in two days have I seen him on the duck house. Early this morning, picking hornworms from my tomato plants, I saw him on the split-rail fence. There were two or three other song sparrows within a few feet of him. I’m guessing this means Fred’s young’uns have fledged. With them gone, he has far less motivation to risk his tail-feathers singing at the top of his lungs on the most visible perch around. I guess I’m going to have to get myself out of bed.

By Kate Goodin, UNH Cooperative Extension NH Outside volunteer                               

08/16/06

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

The battle began about eight years when I noticed that almost everyone I knew was feeding wild birds. Articles appeared in numerous nature publications explaining how to feed, when to feed and what to feed to attract the most “desirable” species.

A common blue jay was out, a cardinal was in. The goal was also to make a sighting of a rare bird that had just by-passed your neighbor’s yard for yours. Along with the thrill of recording each new species, I began to feel a moral obligation to save all the feathered creatures in my yard from certain starvation during our cold New Hampshire winters.

My first attempt at feeding was an instant success. I purchased a thistle seed feeder and flocks of gold finches rushed to my deck. The first winter came and went without incident, except for an occasional crash to the deck (me) during those early morning feeder refills. No broken bones, but a few near misses taught me to check for black ice before venturing out on to the deck without my “creepers.”

Unfortunately, a few birds crashed as well. Sometimes, huge waves of birds would take off in an instant and invariably one would hit the window and crash to the deck. Luckily, most of the crashes resulted in just a stunned bird, which I would put into a cardboard box where it could recover. After an hour or two in the box, it would usually be ready to rejoin the flock. There were, however, a few real casualties. I justified each death by thinking of the hundreds of birds I was confident I had saved from certain starvation. Were a few deaths too high a price to pay for the survival of so many?

By spring, I had 20 or 30 birds waiting for their turn at the now two feeders. The male goldfinches were coming into their beautiful gold and black plumage, a truly amazing sight. This first attempt was such a success I increased the number of feeders to include one with sunflower seeds to attract a wider variety of birds. After that, I decided to continue feeding right through the summer.

I read that you must take the feeders in every night once the bears leave their dens in the spring, as they start looking for food, and bird feeders are a quick and easy source. I did take the feeders in every night—well, almost every night. Unfortunately, bears, either with their keen sense of smell or their knowledge of human fallibility, knew exactly the nights I left the feeders hanging on the deck.

One night I awoke to a loud noise. The whole family trooped downstairs to investigate. We found a huge bear on the deck, so large its back was even with the deck railing, pulling down all the feeders. Lights, dog barking—nothing alarmed the bear as he enjoyed the sunflower seeds. I knew when he knocked down the third and last feeder with his powerful paw that I would need to buy more duct tape.

In the past eight years, I’ve lost nine feeders. One time, the feeder with the iron support rod disappeared; I never saw either the eight-foot rod or the feeder again. I still have a graveyard of bird feeders hanging from the rafters in my basement, each in a different stage of repair. Some have perches missing. Others I’ve repaired with duct tape or coat hangers. The ones beyond repair I’ve kept for spare parts. One remains in pristine condition. Why? Because it\s the only one never raided by bears.

Two years ago, I surrendered to the bears and stopped feeding the birds. Although no one single event made me raise the white flag and end the fight, I was moved by the news of yet another bear, accustomed to an easy meal at feeders, shot for invading a human space.

Whatever the reason, I decided to attract birds the way that nature does. I planted shrubs, trees and other plants that will provide the birds with food and shelter.

I doubt I’ll ever hang bird feeders again. As much as I enjoyed seeing a flock of goldfinch taking to wing, or a single golden bird pecking the small thistle seeds from a feeder, I’ve decided to let Mother Nature provide them food as she has done for millions of years.

by Linda Shaw, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

4/13/06