The Charm of Winter Tree Sparrows

I must confess that as a youngster I wanted to find and see mammals. Read on and find out why I became a birder instead. The trouble was, the only mammals that showed themselves were cats and dogs and cows. The wild ones I dreamed about hid from view.

A call from a friend the other day has prompted this confession. He reported two new "birds" at his feeder. One was the common redpoll, that northern gypsy that is showing up at a number of bird feeders in our area. The other was visiting his feeder at night. In the higher country where he lives, flying squirrels inhabit the deeper forest, and three were using his feeders.

Now squirrels are usually the ultimate nemesis of those who feed birds. Those gray or black oversized rodents with the bushy tail are always raiding the feeders and making a general nuisance of themselves. The way a gray squirrel can leap through the air to alight on a forbidden feeder makes them almost beings of the air. With its gliding powers, nothing can keep a flying squirrel from a feeder.

Once I checked out a bird house set up on a tree in the woods by knocking gently. I will never forget the huge round eyes of the flying squirrel that popped out and stared at me from six inches away. The eyes are so large because this mammal, like most wild ones, is nocturnal. No wonder it is so hard to find them.

Besides squirrels, the other mammal at my feeders is the domestic cat. They get chased away back to my neighbors where they belong, but it is hard to blame them for their wild instinct to hunt. I prefer birds now because they do not hide themselves from view, and you cannot blame my instinct to protect them.

Although the hordes of sparrows that once covered the feeding ground have moved on farther south, plenty of wintering birds are left. However, the bare ground affords food for them in the wild, so they come in only occasionally. The tree sparrows seem to be the most common this year at my feeders.

They are the small brown sparrows with the ace spot on their chest instead of streaking. This is the number one winter sparrow in my book. At odd times throughout the day, they will come to the feeding ground, where their pale brown colors will blend in perfectly with the earthy dirt.

They even migrate properly, being a breeder of the northern tundra that comes south to visit us in large numbers when snow covers their summer range. The first ones arrive around the end of October, when all the sparrows are moving. They do not leave until the end of March.

They shun the woods, as one would expect of a tundra bird, but are often found in shrubby swamps. It is a mystery why they ever received the name of tree sparrow. As the winter daylight grows dim, a large flock will sit and sing out their sweet chorus of tinkling notes. The first time I heard this chorus I thought it might be the elves.

The tiny bell sounds lured me through the forest to a hidden swamp where a hundred birds or more filled the air with magic sound. Elves would be the ultimate mammals of the dark, enchanted forest, but these sparrows were more than enchanting. They were visible and real.

You can walk through a field of weeds that a kind and easygoing gardener might leave, not suspecting a thing until the one step brings you too close. Then the tree sparrows will flush from their hidden recesses and alight farther away, perhaps perched on a tall weed, or gone down again as if never there. If the weedy field is large, then they will eventually congregate in flocks of two or three hundred as the snows deepen.

The other day I happened on a flock of tree sparrows mixed with juncos. They flushed up from the roadside where grass is left to grow long and go to seed. They retreated to the cover of a nearby bush and perched in the open, showing off their rusty caps. That is why I settled on birds. They like protection, but not invisibility.