The Redstart . . . Coming or Going?

When I first see the little tyke he is standing on a rock in the middle of one of the small pools. He timidly puts one foot into the wet stuff, then slips off the rock into the shallow water and begins splashing. After his bath, he jumps onto the rocks around the pool and shakes his feathers dry. Then he flies to a small shrub. From there he darts out into the air and grabs a small insect, flycatcher fashion. Probably a gnat, for swarms are already out.

Leaving the pool, the dazzling little redstart plays among the shrubbery, picking off early hatched insects. From the shrubbery he flies to a slightly leaf-budding sweet gum tree. Sliding along the sun-splashed limbs, opening and closing his orange fan-shaped tail, the tiny bird dances for his breakfast.

Is he here this morning because he remembers his stop at the pool last fall, found it pleasing and refreshing, and now has it on his itinerary for his northward journey this spring?

Dashing out into the air to grab insects, he is likened to the flycatchers, but here his method of securing insects ceases. He is perpetually in motion, seizing gnats and other gossamer-winged goodies in the air. Flycatchers are more sedentary. They sit on a tree branch or fence and wait patiently for their dinner to fly past. Then they dash out and seize it.

The redstart is one of the commonest of the warblers. It is more abundant in South Carolina in the fall than at any other time of the year.

This vivacious little warbler, flashing orange-red tail and wings, gives us a pleasant surprise late in March when he drops into the pool outside our kitchen window.

Most redstarts spend their winter in the West Indies and Central or South America, some 2,000 miles or more from our area. This is an early date for this little guy to be this far north. Because of his earliness, our place is probably just a pit stop for him and in a few days he will be far up the coast, if he has his eye on New England or Quebec. He is probably on his way back to where he was born.

With the exception of the white lower breast and belly, this tiny 5 1/2 inch warbler is dressed all over in black with bright red-orange accents on wing and tail. It has a habit of drooping its wings, fanning out its tail and jumping into the air after insects. It rarely sits still.

The color pattern is the same for the female, though she is grayish olive-green and pale yellow, where the male is flame color and black. Young resemble the female but young males usually have black on the breast and a light salmon wash on the sides of the breast.

Is he a migrant, or has he spent the winter hidden in thick foliage in swamps and along stream banks? If a migrant, he is an extremely early one that hazarded an early arrival, or he has been well-hidden from bird watchers this past winter.

Some Baltimore orioles opt to spend winters in southern swamps and river bottoms rather than seek refuge in tropical forests. Our little visitor may have chosen to do the same.

We didn't hear his "tsee, tsee, tsee-o" song which might mean he hasn't reached his destination yet. Consequently, he'll continue his journey and wait for the females to arrive before he breaks into sweet song.

Sights & Sounds of a Mountain Childhood

A long time ago I lived in a small village in the North Georgia mountains. In its summers, I enjoyed the simplicity of living and never knew boredom. Those long, sun-filled, mountain- breezed days would last forever, or so it seemed.

There were no radios, televisions or telephones. Communication in the village, over the hills and to distant places came about through mail, foot, automobile, newspapers, books and magazines.

Today's youth would complain, "There's nothing to do. Nothing ever happens here. I'm bored."

But big events did happen in those serene hills. Birds! In April, the big experience was the return of the birds. The coming-home-song of the wood thrush would jolt me out of bed. Quickly dressing, I would rush out into the nippy dawn to find the speckled-throated songster.

And down in the greening orchard, the clear sweet song of the bright indigo bunting bubbled out over the countryside. This small bird began singing as the first sunbeams wrapped the highest hills in light and continued all day long, literally.

For as long as I can remember, phoebes nested on a window frame of my parent's bedroom. We welcomed them home when first we heard the male call in an irritable voice, "phoebe, phoebee," as if he wanted his mate to hurry up and get busy with house building.

Then there's the summer tanager I put to bed each summer night. A big white oak stood below the wall of the front yard and near the road. As darkness crept over the land, I sat under the tree and listened for the tanager's bedtime chatter. "Quick, pick-it-up," he taunted a half dozen times. He seemed to be telling the family to clean up the clutter before hitting the hay. He sputters and spits a few times and then everything is quiet. He goes through this "to-bed" procedure every night, sleeping on the same grizzled mattress under the same green blanket. I wait until he's quiet, then I go into the house. Deepening dusk draws the shutters for the night for both the bird and me.

Our house had a tremendous peaked roof made of weathered shingles. Up from the ground and over the tin-roofed porch, and up the peaked two-story roof, between the two chimneys at either end of the house, ran a lightening rod. It dropped from the peak down the back roof and into the ground at the well porch.

We used to play on the lightening rod. Scrambling up the rod and holding tight, we reached the roof peak. Straddling the peak and grasping the rod, we scampered across the roof to the far chimney. Here, we were in the treetops with the chickadees and titmice and blue jays. And we could look down on the mimosa tree with sometimes a dozen nectar-feeding, ruby-throated hummingbirds. From this exalted position, the horizon expanded over countless mountains and we could see Amicoloa Falls dashing down its rocky slide into a jagged mountain stream some sixteen miles away.

Spanking after spanking we received when we were caught on the roof, but the spankings never deterred us from experiencing this thrill again and again when we could slip to the roof without our mother knowing it.

There's something about the returning birds that sends my senses reeling. The bird chorus that comes with the mountain dawn awakened me to a medley of songs and calls and inspired me to rise with the birds and enjoy the freshness of the morning.

My childhood in the mountains taught me much and has made my life tremendously richer. I feel sorry for today's youngsters who have their sense of wonder of the great outdoors dulled by having only computers and TVs to tell them of the big events of summer days exploding all around them.

Light Leads To Singing

Spring mornings belong to the birds. The sounds of a dew-studded morning is bird song at its best.

Light! This is what moves birds to song. The northward moving sun brings more light each day and birds are the first to respond.

Even as the sun teased us these past chilly spring days, birds felt its warm touch, and that touch was overpowering. They began to sing way back in cold February. Now bird song in our area is climaxing, but it will continue until late May and early June. It is then that most summer visitors drop courting antics and close their nurseries, causing song to decrease noticeably.

Nearly all of our permanent residents nest a second or third time. From these nestings we have the mating songs and nursery lullabies until late July and August when both residents and visitors go into molt and song turns into call notes and angry shrieks.

Arising early, shortly after six o'clock, we find a pair of Carolina wrens, who have a nest in a basket of ferns on our porch, already busy feeding the six gaping yellow-rimmed mouths in the cradle. The male stops in a near by river birch between every trip to the nest and belts out a loud, "Shree, shree, shree." His industrious mate works consistently, probably cheered on by his go-go yell.

Where the wood lot meets the wall, there's a robin's nest saddled on a sweet gum branch. Here again the mother is busy with breakfast for four babies while dad adds his melody to the morning chorus. His concert was going before we arose, and he's been at it for an hour now.

Choosing a yaupon holly for their twig and leaf nest, a pair of brown thrashers thrash the debris under the hedge. While he and she dress alike, he soon leaves the thrashing to his new wife and flies to a dead branch of a tall pine where his throaty melody fills the scented air. She leaves the ground where she's feeding and flies to the nest. We watch as she settles down. After sitting, quickly she stands up in the nest again, turns around, shakes her wings, then quickly sits again. There were two eggs in the nest yesterday. We expect three when she leaves this morning.

A southern morning would be drab indeed without the clear whistle of the cardinal as he calls, "What-cheer, what-cheer, what-cheer." He's giving a message to his less brightly colored mate who is busy checking out the cherry laurel hedge. Now, while she hides in the foliage, she sings softly and sweetly to her mate. He stops and listens. When she finishes, he begins a loud and long solo.

Two doves on pink feet swish and sway down the driveway, swinging their little hips from side to side, keeping time with their nodding heads. The dove is a prolific breeder and the two have already built their shallow stick nest high in the crotch of a pine tree. One or the other has been cooing since early morning, a soft, soothing note, compared to the loud boisterous songs of the more active yard birds.

And what would spring be without that master of song, the mockingbird. He is a tireless singer. Sitting atop a twig of a nearly-leafed tree, he sings incessantly hour after hour. We're expecting him to buy building space in the yellow jessamine vine.

He's happy and wants you to know it. The mocker has been known to change his song eighty-seven times in just seven minutes. This outburst of song is as much a part of spring as blooming dogwood trees and flaming azaleas.

I Am Green

Along with the arrival of warblers, another group of dainty birds, though not as colorful as the warblers, will be filling the trees and shrubs in your yards this spring.

Spending their lives among green foliage, vireos wear camouflaged colors . . . olive, olive-green, whitish, buffy or yellowish hues and soft dark grays. Their bills are more curved than the warblers and have a slight hook. The Latin word "vireo" means I am green.

The three species that we are most likely to see in this area are the white-eyed, red-eyed and yellow-throated. The solitary (blue-headed) vireo is a mountain summer resident, nesting occasionally in the piedmont and, rarely, as far south as Lake Thurmond. It is a common migrant through the area, while the red-eyed and yellow-throated are common nesters in the Central Savannah River Area.

Vireos are truly our friends. Watch one search for his dinner. He slowly, deliberately and methodically searches each leaf, above and below it, whereas the excitable, skittish warblers hurry from branch to branch without combing the leaves of harmful insects.

Another way to know you have a vireo in your glasses is to learn their songs. The red-eyed is perhaps the best known vireo in the eastern United States. He wears a gray cap edged in black that sits on his head just above his white eyebrows. His coat is dull olive. It is accented by the white shirt.

There are some birders who think his song is rather tiresome, "you see it-you know it-do you hear me-up here, see me." All through the long, hot summer days, his wearisome monologue, repeated over and over again, fills the humid air. But learn it, then compare the other vireo song's to the red-eyed's.

The yellow-throated is the beauty of the vireo clan with its brilliant yellow breast, its olive green back and its double white wing bars. When you hear it you know it's a vireo because it has touches of the red-eyed's song, but it is more mellow. One song says to me, "e-ay-ee-eight" with a short pause, then repeated. The yellow-throated nests here and is well known by birders in our area.

Another well known vireo of the area is the white-eyed. He wears a brighter olive-green coat than his cousins. His white shirt is washed in yellow on the sides. The two yellowish-white bars on his wings and white throat identify him from a distance. His white eyes are ringed in yellow. This vivacious little vireo wants his own song so he moves away from the typical vireo song. He makes up his own song in chips, chucks and mews which sound like, "chick'-a-per-weeoo. Chick' or chick'-ticha, wheeys, chick!"

The three above described vireos are the most commonly seen in this area. They come in and stay to nest. Three others, the warbling, Philadelphia and solitary vireos spend a few days with us during migration, then move on northward.

If you're not looking for a vireo you might never see one, so inconspicuous are they among the green foliage.

Which Bird Built This Nest?

"How do different birds know how to build distinctive nests", queried a friend, "and how can you identify the nests of different species?"

Being addicted to the fine art of finding and identifying bird nests, I tried to answer.

Baby birds are born with individuality and a wild wisdom, a guidance factor known only to them and God. When they hatch they already know how to build a nest like the one in which they were born.

The birds of a given species follow a fairly consistent pattern in nest building although individuals sometimes depart from the general rule, both as to location and materials used in the nest's construction.

Cardinals build nests in our yard every year. Without fail the not-so-neat nests are made of small twigs, strips of paper, weed stems, rootlets and grasses. Fine grass and hair are used for the lining. The nest is from four to twelve feet from the ground in a bush, small tree, hedge or thick and thorny vines.

The yuppie wood thrush has two sets of house plans for the two different sites he usually chooses. His country home is placed in the crotch of a sapling, completely filling the crotch with leaves and paper. The outer depth of the nest can easily reach six inches. Dead leaves, weed stalks, rootlets and paper make up the foundation of the nest. It has some weight because of the compact mud or leaf mold inner wall. It is lined with thin rootlets.

Smaller, shallower and cup-shaped, the other style home is saddled on a large horizontal limb of an aged tree. It is cemented to the branch with mud. The same materials are used as in the country place but in lesser quantities.

We believe the same wood thrush built in the identical crotch of the same sapling in our yard for three years. The act of decorating the outside of the nest each year with a long flowing piece of toilet paper told us we had a hippie decorator in our midst, one who didn't cotton to the traditional decorating styles.

When you find a delicate and cleverly interwoven small cup-shaped nest of dainty grasses and tiny rootlets, lined with horse, cow or deer hair, the petite, rust-headed chipping sparrow is the builder.

To be such a chatterer, and so small, the Carolina wren defies his size with the large rough and sloppy nest he builds. It is lined with fine rootlets and hair. It is domed and has a side entrance.

Any old place will do for him to stick his nest, a hanging flower basket, a discarded coffee pot, a cluttered shelf, baskets, a door wreath, on the top of porch cabinets, underneath automobiles. Lean-tos and crannies seem to fascinate him more than bird boxes for nesting sites.

Of the three mimics, the mockingbird's nest is the smallest, the catbird's is in between, with the brown thrasher building the largest.

All three of these long-tailed birds make their nest foundation with sticks . . . the size stick reflecting who's building the nest. For the second layer of the foundation, the mockingbird and catbird use smaller sticks, but the brown thrasher's second layer is loads of dead leaves, then more small sticks with a lining of fine rootlets.

The catbird's lining is of fine rootlets and grapevine bark, paper and plastic. The mockingbird, after a foundation of small sticks, collects litter for his nest . . . leaves, grass, rags, string, hair, down, tree blossoms, paper, and feathers . . . and lines it with fine rootlets and soft hair.

The red-eyed vireos nesting in our yard always place the nest in a tree close to the end of the limb. They choose not a fork, but a sort of parallelogram (a small branch with two almost evenly spaced twigs protruding from it), and attach the nest to the three twigs.

Yet many of these birds have never selected a location or made a nest before. When the small blind, squiggly, pink animal is born there is within it a food preference, a migrating pattern, a nesting behavior, a distinctive set of marks and song, all waiting to begin that struggle known as survival.

But, with all that said, the best way to identify a bird's nest is to find the owner at home.