The Kellogg Columns

There is an animal whose image adorns greeting cards and note paper in cute and friendly poses that give you a warm fuzzy feeling. The actual animal, however, is perhaps one of the most feared creatures on earth, hunted and trapped without mercy whenever it appears where people dwell.

Perhaps we feel bad about the mice we kill in our homes and wish they would be the harmless house mouse companions they appear to be in those commercial designs. It would be so much nicer to tame them rather than smash them in traps, lure them to agony with poison bait, or send the cat to torment and devour them

Of course, some folks do keep mice as pets in cages. They like seeing them burrow through litter and tunnels or hearing them run forever in squeaky wheels. A wild mouse gnawing in the walls, however, will unhinge a homeowner completely. Perhaps I can offer a different animal as the image of the fuzzy friend, the petite and lively wren.

The wren is as secretive and swift as a mouse, and cuter by far. It comes in three versions in our area, each as inquisitive and bubbly enough to bring a smile to your day. One version even wears the name 'house,' although it will never enter your home and wander through your walls.

The most common version is the house wren, who often breeds in wooden boxes we set up in our yards and will entertain you for hours carrying twigs to build the nest and bugs to feed the young through the little entrance hole. This wren is gone south now as winter approaches, and mice may actually have moved in to that wren box and built their own nest.

It is likely that mice may leave the frosted grass of your yard and enter your homes now. More welcome is another wren that may visit your feeder by day and roost nightly under a porch all winter. This is the Carolina wren, who, like his cousin the house wren, always seeks out dark cavities in which to hide.

Then there is the quintessential wren, the one that I have been wanting to tell you about from the start, the cutest of them all and most mouselike, the winter wren. This littlest of wrens has darker brown barring than the house wren, with only a darling stub of a tail that always sticks straight up.

In the mountains where this wren lives most of the year, it will find the hunter's camp a lovely place to make a home, creeping in though a small hole and roosting away the winter in a warmer woodpile. This would be in southern forests where snow is less likely to fill the crevices beneath rocks and fallen logs where the wren would find plenty to eat.

The winter wren must leave the northern mountains now, when the north wind blows and the snow falls. You must search it out in tangles and weedy patches on forest floors along the brooks and rivers of southern New England. In the last few weeks in such secret tangles near my house, the winter wren's happy chatter has sounded out several times.

If you stand still, you can watch the little bird hop and teeter on the logs and leaves, more mousy and cute than any image in your mind. Like other wrens, it gives out a series of gentle scolding notes when agitated, but then slowly settles back down to scour the ground for food.

This wren is reluctant to fly far, preferring to keep low and out of sight, but always on the move. It does a bouncy dance, exercising the short, powerful legs that propel it everywhere. Whenever it stops walking, the bird will bob up and down in a frenzied rhythm, nearly toppling over headlong in the effort.

When alarmed, it will venture into the open a bit and dance for you, but soon will dive back into cover, disappearing in the shadows as if it was the merest shade itself. This is the kind of creature you can illustrate and celebrate in art and story, adorning your note papers with its enchanting image.

If it lives in the park pond and quacks like a duck, it must be a duck. What is it then if it fails to quack and lives in the pounding surf of a winter sea? Of course, it is a sea duck, a duck that dives deep and flies far, a duck as wild as the ocean and as fearless.

As the air turns cold and the wide sea waters roil into a frenzy that crashes on the land in endless waves, then the sea ducks return to New England. They have been on parental leave in the far north, in the grasses and forests of interior Canada, or on the barren rocky islands beside the Arctic Sea.

The closest most people come to these birds is when they snuggle down for the night on a down pillow or comforter. True down is collected from the nests of the best-known sea duck, the eider. The mother eider duck plucks the softest feathers from her breast and lines her nest with it to keep the young warm when she is gone.

The eider duck is the largest sea duck in North America, but only slightly smaller are three species of ducks known as scoters. The eider almost never strays far from the ocean at any time, but the scoters breed around the bogs and lakes of inland tundra and forests, and must migrate over land to reach the ocean.

One of the three is called the white-winged scoter, which breeds only in western Canada and must fly high, fast and far to reach the stormy Atlantic coast. Some tire or encounter foul weather, so they must stop at larger lakes along the way.

Then you will find rafts of 50-100 or even several hundred in the middle of the reservoir, packed together as close as possible and whirling around in a maelstrom of bodies. These restless rafts are perhaps the result of nervous energy, for the birds have little to eat here and are anxious to resume their journey.

Two weeks ago, there were three white-winged scoters on Lake Congamond in Southwick, an adult male with two immatures. They were swimming wildly around the more sedate black ducks and mallards that usually populate the pond in November. The black ducks are misnamed, being different shades of darker brown, lighter on the head.

The large, bright wing patch of the white winged scoter is prominent in flight, but often hidden on a swimming bird. Then the adult male plumage becomes a very cool costume, entirely jet black except for a white eye patch that curls up in a swatch behind the eye, giving the bird the appearance of a cape clad Zorro, peering mysteriously from behind a mask. One nickname the hunter's use for this species is 'half-moon eye.'

These ducks once were once hunted from boats on the coast, but rarely now, since they have a strong fishy taste that makes them unpalatable unless there is a cook who knows how to prepare the bird properly. When migrating low over the outer surf in long strings, they are easy marks for a gunner.

Their lack of fear of man earned them another name of 'dumb duck.' They are not dumb, but they are usually silent, the white-wing uttering a low quiet quack from deep in the gut. This is heard rarely and only on the breeding grounds.

All winter, the white-winged scoter can be found feeding in small groups along the Massachusetts coastline, diving deep to find the mussels that are attached to underwater rocks beneath the pounding surf. Unlike other ducks that dive, they extend their wings part way for added propulsion and steering, being able to descend to depths of forty feet or more.

Look for this masked marauder whenever you visit the cold coast, for it will be there, just off the ledges or beaches, riding the waves. Don't mistake him for the gentle and tasty black duck, who holds his head high and dabbles in the shallow mud flats. The white-winged scoter is long and sleek, head held low, giving an impression of power and prowess as it prepares to dive deep for its dinner.

A walk in the woods is so much quieter now. The chickadees are still there, along with titmice and a few noisy jays, but most of the woodland, birds are far south in tropical forests. The only sound you can hear is the chickadees talking to each other, or a woodpecker drilling for insects in the dead bark and calling its brief rattle as it goes from tree to tree.

In a sense, these birds are extra-terrestrial, living in the canopy of vegetation and rarely touching the solid earth. They will come to ground in search of fallen seeds, but they much prefer the sunflower feeder suspended high above the ground. They do not need perches at all, able to cling nearly upside down, as oblivious to gravity as a spaceman in orbit.

A walk in the fields will seem even quieter, but there are some songbirds which are very terrestrial, more akin to the dirt and sand than the trees. They live in the wide-open spaces of prairies and tundra, hugging the ground as if they were baby elves at the bosom of mother earth.

You can travel west or north to find these birds by the tens of thousands, but you can also wait for winter and enjoy them right here in New England. True, you have to visit our small versions of wide-open spaces, but those are nearer than you think.

On the fields and floodplains near the Connecticut River, you can brave the unbroken winds rushing free against your bundled skin and find the prairie birds. It may seem a fool's errand, but do it for a lark anyway. Eventually there will be a lift-off from the seemingly lifeless earth and the air will suddenly fill with what looks like blowing leaves.

Those leaves will most likely be horned larks, two hundred or more, flying in a loose formation just above the ground, then rising suddenly to a hundred feet and turning back and down to retrace their course. Around and above the fields they will go, sometimes passing just above your head, and the clear tinkle of tiny sleigh bells will reach your ear.

It is the voice of the lark on parade, the best we can do here in the new world, for the famous song the poets celebrate belongs to the skylark of the Old World, a near relative of this bird. The horned lark is the only member of this family that lives in North America, spread nearly throughout the continent wherever it can find bare fields or beaches.

Not long ago, a few of us were at Duxbury Beach and three of these larks settled down not twenty feet away on the top of a low dune. Magnified in our glasses, they looked like demons or trolls, the odd black feather tuft that gives them their name curled up from their heads. Their brown backs blended in against the sand, but the narrow black bib and mask framing the yellow on the face gave them a rakish look befitting the horns.

When not startled into the air, they walk the earth like tiny titans, secure and swift on their toes, the rear one especially long to hold them steady. They may seem like they own this turf all to themselves, but there is room for other prairie dwellers as well.

Most of these winter horned larks are from the northern tundra, but a few do stay here to breed. Two other tundra loving songbirds are rarer, coming only as the Christmas solstice approaches. One is the snow bunting, the other the lapland longspur, both members of the sparrow family.

We were walking down South Beach in Chatham a week later to find these winged riders of the wind with the long, spurred feet, and suddenly they rose from the ground, fifty or more longspurs imitating the larks in their flight, but giving off a cheerful chatter along with an occasional whistle.

Smaller than the lark, but just as brown, they seemed like elves rather than devils, and perhaps they are, gifts from the land of Saint Nick. The great seabirds flew all around us over the ocean, but on and above the grassy dunes the earthlings walked and flew and sang, weaving the magic of Christmas creatures.

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There are usually some birds at the feeders these days, and often the ground is covered with them, all frantic to consume as many seeds as possible. Once in a while there are none. Then you should look more closely, for a bird of prey may be present, either holding or hoping for a meal.

Almost always it is either a Cooper's hawk or a sharp-shinned hawk, both adept at catching birds in the confined spaces of yards, except for the picture window they cannot see. The high-flying falcons rarely visit a feeder and the red-tailed hawks stay more in the open, looking for bigger, slower game.

Winter in New England is the time for birds that eat seeds and fruit, birds that feed in coastal waters, and birds of prey. There are three species of hawks and four owls that regularly use our frozen landscape as their larder, but there are thirteen other raptors that are found in small numbers every winter. Then there are a few really rarer ones.

Nothing can quite match the stir of excitement when a very rare bird of prey is found. Usually such a bird has set up a winter hunting territory in which it can be found at least for a while, and often the whole season. When the word of its presence spreads, then birders flock to get a once in a lifetime look at the wanderer.

There are only four species that can arouse such eagerness, three owls and one falcon. All are normally residents of the far north, but during years of severe weather and scarce prey, one or two press southward to find a living. One day recently, a group of western Massachusetts birders were able to see two out of these four.

The extensive marshes along the Parker River in Newburyport are the hunting grounds for many raptors. None are as spectacular as the single gyrfalcon that now spends it time there just resting on a grassy hummock, or nibbling on the body of a duck or pheasant it has cached nearby. Most of its hunting is done at dawn or dusk, and it does not take long to capture the day's dinner.

The gyrfalcon is a huge falcon, larger than a peregrine, two feet from bill to tail with a five-foot wingspread. The wings are long, broad and powerful enough to lift its robust body low and fast across the marshes like a stealth bomber, surprising its prey and seizing it as it tries to lift off from the ground.

Usually it lives very far north, on the coasts of Greenland and far northern Canada. The origin of its name (the prefix pronounced like jer) is unsure, but probably comes from a word meaning greedy. We could only see this bird from a distance through our telescopes, but its size and bearing was impressive enough as it flapped and strutted around its roosting place.

A friend from New Hampshire was there, and it did not take long for most of us to decide a three-hour drive to the White Mountains was worthwhile just to get a look at another rarity, a northern hawk owl. This is an owl of woodland openings throughout the coniferous forests of Canada, and a special treat for those who have never seen one.

Ten minutes after we arrived at a small airport surrounded by overgrown fields, the bird was seen streaking low across the ground, then rising to alight near the top of a tree. With its long tail it looked like a hawk, but the rounded head, facial disc and forward seeing eyes betrayed its owl identity.

Those yellow eyes were as alert as only a hunting predator's can be, but the drooping eyelids gave it an extra aura of allure. We watched as the bird hunted and perched, catching and storing a mouse in a snag, and entirely oblivious to our presence.

The black patches on the face, the body barring and streaking of white and black made this owl a unique image as it posed and turned in the sun, giving us every angle at close range. After viewing two such magnificent animals in one day, the hours on the long, dark road back were filled with both high spirits and sleepy satisfaction.

It is time for birders to venture out on another Christmas hunt. On Christmas day the hunters of old spent the morning in the field, shooting everything that moved in their sights, especially the birds. Wings could not outrun the deadly shot, and the take was heavy in those days.

At lunch there was a feast with ample libation as the laden bags were opened and the bounty dumped and counted for all to see. Doves and jays and woodpeckers were counted and compared to see who could boast of being the day's best shot. Eventually this long tradition was ended by widespread revulsion, and modern hunting replaced it.

Today the tradition of the Christmas hunt is still carried on with the same essential weapons of arms and legs and eyes as well as knowing where the game may be found. Of course, we do not celebrate this Audubon event on Christmas day. We get to choose any day from mid-December until early January, and it is usually on a weekend.

Hundreds of birders go into the field throughout the state, starting at dawn or before and laboring until dusk, supposedly for science. However, we too gather with a feast to share the day's catch with others, each team of two or more having sampled and censused the birds of a particular assigned area within a count circle fifteen miles across.

Each team has a checklist of about seventy probable species that can be present on a New England December day. If any rare bird is found, its identity is guarded carefully until after the meal. Instead, we talk in general of the weather, and laugh as we relive some of the day's trials and minor triumphs.

After dinner we circle round the compiler and report our numbers and our rarities, warmed anew by the appreciative murmurs and hurrahs of all. Among the seventy species tallied on the Springfield area count were eight not even on the list, and two hardly ever encountered, a grebe and a warbler.

There were water birds, usually found on the larger lakes or rivers that may still be unfrozen. Canada geese, black ducks and mallards are common, but a hundred or more each of the wilder goldeneyes and mergansers are also present.

Three species of scavenging gulls were noted by the hundreds, and a handful of kingfishers still patrolled the stream banks. On the Connecticut River from Holyoke to Agawam, the counters also found a Barrow's goldeneye, pied-billed grebe, snow goose, gadwall, and bufflehead, each one announced with a special story and a measure of pride.

We went on to tell of hawks and owls. Every team had several of the common red-tailed hawks, and one even managed ten of them. All together, we discovered only a few each of sharp-shinned hawks, Cooper's hawks, and kestrels, plus two harriers and a merlin, both quite rare in winter. There were fewer than ten screech owls responding to tape recordings of their night calls, and only a few great horned owls gave out a hoot.

Five species of woodpeckers were listed, even a few of the spectacular pileated woodpeckers, always a prize. There were the usual permanent resident songbirds, the doves, jays, crows, chickadees, titmice, nuthatches, creepers, kinglets, mockingbirds, sparrows and finches.

Added to these were one or two individuals of species that are hardy, but not usually hardy enough to spend the winter so far north, such as the winter wren, hermit thrush, catbird, pine warbler, towhee, fox sparrow, red-winged blackbird and grackle. There were two wandering red crossbills, the only northern species recorded.

Finally, there are the three fruit eating species, the waxwing, bluebird, and robin. Most teams found at least a few of these, but my team searched for bluebirds in vain. We were compensated, however, by the massive flock of hundreds of robins that surrounded us on an Agawam hillside.

These birds flew from one ice covered bush and tree to another, their rusty bellies warming the gray and white of sky and earth. Many of the robins sang boldly to each other as they waited a turn at the frozen berries, heralding both the approaching solstice and the not-too-distant spring. Hunting and counting birds for Christmas is more than science, it is a song to the promise of tomorrow.

Sunday it rained, and it often rained hard. The wind blew and even some thunder and lightning were added to the mix. There were Christmas bird counts scheduled for that day, and in the last thirty years a count has rarely been canceled or postponed. The counts in the Pittsfield and Northampton areas were done on schedule.

About 75 people usually work on the Northampton count, which set a record high of 91 species found in December 1999. That number was out of reach on Sunday, but the stalwart few that braved the elements report a unique day out in the field. One soaked counter even claimed the experience was 'mystically sublime.'

The next Saturday was two days before Christmas, and the Westfield area count also went off as scheduled, only our tenth year compared to more than sixty years for the Springfield area count. We mustered 18 observers in eleven parties on a day when the cold of an unusually bitter month began to deepen.

We were bundled against the wind, but it still tore at our cheeks and eyes, so we were all glad when the sun warmed us a bit as the day wore on. Before dawn the wind was a mite calmer, so the owls answered our tapes of their calls. We play the voices of the smaller owls first, the saw-whet and the screech owl. Then we try the larger barred and great horned owls.

One owler heard a rare saw-whet responding on the north side of Westfield, while the number of common screech owls prompted to call was sixteen. There were only two great horned and no barred owls at all bothering to give voice against the coldest of winds.

We labored all day, but the songbirds were hunkered down more than usual, and the numbers seen were comparatively low. The chickadees were very scarce, as were mockingbirds and tree sparrows. Many other plentiful winter species were below average, such as the downy and hairy woodpeckers, the blue jay, tufted titmouse, and white-breasted nuthatch

The northern finches are absent this winter, staying in their Canadian forests where the trees are bearing cones and seeds for their dining pleasure. No redpolls or siskins were reported, and even the goldfinches were found only in the wooded areas away from houses, content with the food on our trees.

This may support the complaints of feeder watchers that few birds are coming to their feeders, but some species were tallied in record or near record numbers. There were many song and white-throated sparrows and juncos found on this day's census, and the robins and bluebirds seemed to be everywhere. Spread the mixed seed or millet on the ground daily, and the sparrows at least will come to your yard to feed.

We found 242 Robins, all hale and hearty as they searched the countryside for fruits and berries. This was twice the number of titmice and nearly equal to the numbers of chickadees or jays. The fifty-six bluebirds noted was one fewer than the number of downy woodpeckers. Apparently, it is not the winter weather that has reduced the numbers of birds.

Consider the eastern phoebe that was discovered at a pool of open water far from the heat of the city in the hill town of Granville. It was found at the 'mill in the meadow,' where the turning wheel keeps the water from freezing. There this little flycatcher still perches on the overhanging branches above the water's surface.

Every few minutes it spies a tiny insect on the surface, which it flies down and skims into its bill, giving a little chirp of triumph as it settles back on a frosty twig. Its coat of inner down and outer feathers is proof against the wind and cold, as each bit of buggy protein in its belly is fuel to stoke a miniature furnace that warms a few drops of blood.

This may be the only phoebe spending the winter in New England, and we can only marvel at its persistence even as we wonder at its stubborn resistance to migrating farther south. Over the years there have been phoebes surviving the entire winter in our area, but we should fear for this little fellow if the cold does not moderate soon.