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Everyday realities for winter birds...

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House finch slept for an hour on the feeder perch - looking cold, maybe not entirely well

The Winter Birds by Charles Hughes

“But what about the birds that don’t fly south?”
A boy—age six?—arms full of books—is asking.
The library is closing. We’re in line.
“Some birds don’t mind the cold,” a woman answers.
“They have warm nests. Their feathers keep them warm.”
The boy hesitates, then rejoins, “But Grandma . . .”
He hesitates again as if he’s gathered
His grandmother can’t tell him any more.

Since Christmas, it’s been bitter cold. Tonight
Will tumble icily down to zero or
Below, and there may be, there may well be,
Some birds close by that die tonight, some birds—
The youngest, oldest, hungriest—some birds
That, in this kind of cold, may well shrink deep
Into nests and feathers, just not deep enough
To keep them shivering until the morning.

The boy, his books checked out, his grandmother—
They’re moving toward the door. She’s promising
Hot chocolate and Christmas cookies once they’re home.
Her voice trails off . . .
                                        They’ve vanished now, although
Two common, everyday realities
Stay put and visible like winter birds:
The suffering and death of innocents;
Love’s presence, unavailing, undeterred.

February seems to have arrived with snow and frigid temperatures after a remarkably unwintery January. Led by the courageous chickadees and the plucky titmice, the small birds return to the feeders at first light desperate to refuel after burning everything to stay alive through the long night. Juncos, white-throated sparrows, goldfinches, red and white-breasted nuthatches, and the ubiquitous house sparrows follow in flocks. The larger birds - the cardinals, blue jays, mourning doves, and woodpeckers - seem to have more energy in reserve and arrive later, more calm and alert, less anxious about survival.

It’s all about staying warm. Songbirds have only a few tools at their disposal. First, they can insulate themselves as much as possible. So they puff up their down jackets looking fat in their fluffy warmer plumage. Second, they shiver. This generates heat but also uses lots of fuel. Third, they alter the circulation to their thin unfeathered legs to maintain them at a temperature below their core and so that the warmer outgoing arterial blood warms the returning venous blood spreading heat to the distal most parts. (Check out the Willet or won’t it blog of last August for more information than you probably wanted about this.) Fourth, most birds can slow their metabolism and drop their core body temperature at night to diminish the amount of fuel they will need until they can eat again. Finally, they spend their waking hours replenishing their energy stores by searching for, eating, and caching food all day long. And, no, they don’t need my birdfeeders to do this. They have survived harsh winters for far longer than there have been humans around with the disposable resources to feed them. Most non-migratory birds survive the coldest of winters because we know that more birds are killed by predators, especially house cats, and crashes with windows than by cold weather.

Why not migrate instead? Florida or the Caribbean look pretty tempting to me at this point in the long New England winter - but not during this pandemic year. Well, even without pandemics, migration is risky too - flying long distances in all kinds of weather to an uncertain destination. And what about that ideal territory that was so hard won last spring - why give that up and fly away? Non-migratory birds have their “reasons” for staying put, and it must be that from a species survival standpoint staying beats going.

And you cannot sing like a wren with the voice of an eagle...

in

Two weeks ago our little Carolina Wren was upstaged by the Bald Eagle that perched atop a tall pine behind our house. It was two days after the invasion of our Capitol Building in Washington, and the eagle seemed to be a messenger of some sort worthy of a blog post. So now it’s time to get back to the neglected wren and sing its praises. Because in Greek and Celtic legend, the wren is the “king of birds” - so named for flying higher than any other bird including the mighty eagle on whose back the wren had hidden until the eagle finally tired and descended leaving the wren above triumphant.

If you read that eagle blog, you might recall that the eagle’s voice is not commensurate with its stature in other respects and that Hollywood dubs in red-tailed hawk calls whenever portraying eagles in movies. The minuscule wren, on the other hand, has a lovely, loud and often persistent song. A male Carolina Wren may sing as often as 3000 times in a day. And, after accounting for size and weight (somehow), the song of the Carolina Wren is ten times louder than that of a crow. Thankfully, it is also 100 times more pleasant.

All 83 Wren species originated in the Americas, and only the Winter Wren is found elsewhere. Carolina Wrens are non-migratory and native to the southeastern United States. However, in recent decades they are found further and further to the north as the climate warms bringing their winter presence to our New Hampshire yard this year. They are cold sensitive so if we have a colder winter in the future, they may disappear to the south for a few seasons. Carolina Wrens are insectivores feeding in the warmer months on spiders and other insects, but now in January in New Hampshire our wren seems happy to find suet in the feeder.

In Ireland, wrens have long had the unfortunate fate of being hunted and killed on December 26, St. Stephen’s Day (also called Wren’s Day), to symbolize the death of that saint. In contemporary times, toy birds have replaced the dead ones in parades celebrating St. Stephen. But, here’s how Mary Oliver celebrated this little bird as an “invention of holiness” like herself, ourselves, and the rest of creation.

The Wren from Carolina by Mary Oliver

Just now the wren from Carolina buzzed

through the neighbor’s hedge

a line of grace notes I couldn’t even write down

much less sing. 

Now he lifts his chestnut colored throat

and delivers such a cantering praise–

for what?

For the early morning, the taste of the spider, 

for his small cup of life

that he drinks from every day, knowing it will refill.

All things are inventions of holiness.

Some more rascally than others. 

I’m on that list too,

though I don’t know exactly where.

But, every morning, there is my own cup of gladness,

and there’s that wren in the hedge, above me,

with his blazing song.

You cannot fly like an eagle with the wings of a wren...*

in

Carolina Wren - star of a future blog post

My inspirations in this blog usually arise directly from the sighting of a bird and the subsequent capture of its portrait in a photograph. Sometimes the sightings seem poignant and meaningful, and sometimes they are completely mundane. The birds themselves always bring beauty, curiosity, novelty, even humor at times. It helps that I am such an amateur birder so that so much seems new to me every day.

Last week, I spotted a very small bird on our porch and recognized the thin curved beak of a wren - a Carolina Wren in this case - not so unusual in central New Hampshire but the first one that I had seen. I took a few photos to confirm its identity and study it more closely, and I thought I had a suitable subject for a blog post. Then on Friday, January 8th, two days following the deadly storming and occupation of our nation’s Capitol building, Seddon and I were setting out on a daily walk in the woods behind our yard. Large wings swooped fairly low over our heads and then settled in the top of a nearby pine - red-tailed hawk, osprey, maybe an owl were our first thoughts until we saw the dark brown body, the bright white head, the yellow eyes and beak of a large Bald Eagle - majestic in its own right and the symbol of our nation since 1782. What could have been a more poignant and meaningful message and messenger? The little Carolina Wren would have to wait - the smallest of song birds (.8 ounces, wing span 11.5 inches) upstaged by the largest of raptors (7 to 14 pounds, wing span up to 7.5 feet).

Bald Eagle surveying our yard

Bald Eagles are found everywhere in North America from Alaska to northern Mexico. Minnesota appears to have the largest population. In the 18th century, population estimates surpassed 600,000, but by the 1950s there were only 412 nesting pairs in the contiguous United States - hunting, habitat loss, and pesticides accounted for the decline. Fortunately with strong federal protections and the banning of DDT, the Bald Eagle’s population has regained its strength, and since 2007, it is no longer considered an endangered species. No one is permitted to kill a Bald Eagle (even if one has attacked your dog) - the first offense is a misdemeanor, but the fine is a hefty $100,000 with up to a year in prison. Since eagles and eagle parts (feathers, talons, etc.) are crucial elements of indigenous peoples’ culture and religion, the US Fish and Wildlife Service maintains a repository of dead eagles from which eagles and eagle parts are distributed to federally recognized indigenous tribes for religious and medicinal uses.

Juvenile Bald Eagle last fall near the Connecticut River estuary

Soon after the Declaration of Independence was signed, the founding fathers asked John Adams, Benjamin Franklin, and Thomas Jefferson to design a “national seal.” I can only imagine their deliberations about this, and, of course, they failed as miserably as the two committees that were subsequently given the same assignment. Finally, Charles Thomson, the secretary of the Congress, was asked to come up with a design and chose to make the Bald Eagle the central element. Contrary to popular legend, Benjamin Franklin did not suggest that the Wild Turkey would be more appropriate though he was apparently not happy with the Bald Eagle either.

By the way, in case you find yourself outside listening for the robust and intimidating cry of a Bald Eagle, you're in for a disappointment. The Bald Eagle’s call is little more than a weak staccato chirp. When featuring Bald Eagles in films, Hollywood has generally substituted the voice of another bird, usually a red-tailed hawk!

*William Henry Hudson - 19th century author and naturalist

Mimicry

in

Happy New Year to all.

Here in central New Hampshire we have three quite common woodpeckers that were all featured in last month’s blog about head banging. One of these woodpeckers, the Red-bellied Woodpecker, sports distinct plumage and a larger size than the other two. The Hairy and the Downy Woodpeckers on the other hand are almost identical twins and unless seen side-by-side can be difficult to distinguish. The Downy is our smallest woodpecker - much smaller than its Hairy cousin. The Downy is also less aggressive than its larger “twin.” The two are completely different species that diverged from a common ancestor around 6 million years ago - about as far back as when humans and chimpanzees went their separate ways. Curiously, however, they have grown to look more alike with time even though they are each genetically closer to other species. The Downy Woodpecker has grown increasingly to resemble the Hairy Woodpecker (not the other way around). Why would that be happening?

Male downy woodpecker

A young male hairy woodpecker under the watchful (hairy?) eyeball of his male parent

Why do small children want to dress up like superheros? To look powerful and capable of super feats, perhaps. For the demure, petit Downy looking like the big, bad Hairy affords some protection and maybe some advantages in the competition for food. Other birds may give way to a Hairy or to a Hairy look-alike at the suet feeder or along the trunk of a tree in the wild. This phenomenon, called mimicry, occurs throughout the natural world in which, for example, a butterfly might develop a resemblance to a toxic counterpart of a different species in order to avoid predators. Interestingly, there are a number of woodpeckers around the world that exhibit mimicry and have near twins in their habitats.

So how do you distinguish between these two birds? Well, the Hairy is bigger - about 9.5 inches long to the Downy’s 6.5 inches, and the Hairy has a longer, pointy-er beak - it’s about the length of the bird’s whole head while the Downy’s beak is more blunt and only the length of about half the head. Both birds have white outer tail feathers, but the Downy’s are likely to be streaked or spotted with black. Both have large white patches on their backs, but the white patches on the sides of the Downy’s neck are likely to be larger and more distinct. The Hairy Woodpecker is more likely to forage for food along the larger trunks of trees while the Downy Woodpecker will tend to forage along smaller branches. These similarities and differences are true for both males and females except that the males of both species have a red patch on the top and back of their heads.

Woodpeckers drum like other birds sing to attract mates and discourage competition. And like bird songs, their drumming is species specific. The larger Hairy has a much more rapid drumming with longer pauses (25 beats per sec), while the Downy is slower but with very short pauses (15 beats per sec).

Hairy or downy?

Hairy or downy?

The mouse that roared

in

There would be tits in the Duchy of Grand Fenwick (if it existed), but not a titmouse. Tufted titmice are members of the same family of birds as the tits of the Old World, including one known as the great tit, and the chickadees of the New World. And while they don’t quite roar, they certainly make themselves heard bellowing their “peter, peter, peter” song from the tops of trees - especially in the spring.

Why the mouse part of the name? Superficial speculation suggests that it’s due to those prominent, black and somewhat beady eyes - resembling the eyes of a mouse. But that would be incorrect. Even though the tufted titmouse is a New World bird, it’s name derives from Old English - “tit” meaning something small and “mose” meaning bird - a small bird. I’m still skeptical because I don’t think there has ever been a lot of Old English spoken in the Americas. The source of the “tufted” part should be obvious from the photos.

The tufted titmouse is a non-migratory bird found widely across the the United States and Canada east of the Rocky Mountains. During the past 50 years, its range has shifted northwards perhaps in response to climate change and changes in habitat. While they will flock up with other similar songbird species like chickadees, they tend to also pair up with a specific mate throughout the year. A group of titmice is called a banditry. Most tufted titmice remain within 100 miles of their birthplace throughout their lifetimes. Like certain contemporary humans, juvenile titmice will often remain with their parents into adulthood even occasionally helping with the rearing of future nestlings. They eat insects and seeds in the wild and appreciate sunflower seeds and suet at feeders. Like chickadees, they will select a single sunflower seed, return to a tree branch, hold the seed with their feet, and pound it open with their sturdy round beaks. Then, they will either eat the meat of the seed or carefully deposit it in a tree crevice for later dining. Tufted titmice nest in cavities created naturally or by woodpeckers or in nest boxes and like to line the nest with hair from animals including raccoons, opossums, mice, squirrels, house pets, and even humans. None of my sources indicate how these hairs are obtained though it is amusing to imagine.

By the way, The Mouse that Roared is an outrageously funny cold war satire adapted as a late-1950s movie starring (in three separate roles) Peter Sellers. The novel, written by Leonard Wibberley, was published in 1955 (the British edition was titled The Wrath of Grapes, which is understandable if you know the plot).

Check your wallet for a $1000 bill...

in

A Canadian $1000 bill, that is. Circa 1988 or so. On the front is - who else - the venerable and right honorable Queen Elizabeth II. But resplendent In a boreal scene on the back is a pair of Pine Grosbeaks or Gros-bec des Pins for the Quebecois among you…

Recently, having spent my last Canadian $1000 bill, I turned to other resources to identify a pair of zaftig ladies munching away contentedly on crab apple berries while I sipped my morning coffee. They were munching so contentedly that every one of the dozen or so images I captured included a mouthful of berry rinds so large that the grosbeak’s grosbeak could not be seen. But the plump rounded silhouette and the lovely muted gold crown were unmistakable - two female pine grosbeaks who had ventured a bit south of their usual range in the Canadian boreal forests.

So what’s a grosbeak anyway? The word is a linguistic fusion of French for large and beak for, well, beak. Big beak. But I learned that grosbeaks are not really close family members of one another. Some are members of the finch family (evening grosbeaks) and some are members of the cardinal family (rose-breasted grosbeaks) and some are tanagers. The pine grosbeaks are bullfinches and the only species within their genus (Pinicola enucleator). To quote that ultimate authority, Wikipedia, grosbeaks are “not part of a natural group but rather a polyphyletic (really, do we need a word for everything?) assemblage of distantly related songbirds.” Another example of the carefully and logically constructed taxonomy of the birding world.

Pine grosbeaks are frugivores like but not otherwise similar to orangutans. While they generally remain in their breeding range the year around, they will exhibit irruptive behavior at times in search of food. Not to be confused with disruptive behavior (3 to 5 year old humans), irruptive behavior means that they will pop up outside of their breeding range in search of fruits like the berries in our crab apple trees. All of the grosbeaks are prone to irruptive behavior at times, and I am hopeful that this will be true of evening grosbeaks sometime soon.

I haven’t seen these ladies since that one morning over coffee, but I will keep my eyes open. I like the understated female plumage (like the female cardinals, I think), but would still hope to spot one of their boyfriends (red, of course) before long. If this hyperlink fails, have another look at your Canadian $1000 bill.

The snowbird sings...

in

The song he always sings

And speaks to me of flowers

That will bloom again in spring.

By Gene MacLelland, Sung by Anne Murray

Dark-eyed junco

My parents were snowbirds. In their later years, they would flee Illinois winters to bask in the Arizona sun. I believe that New Englanders who head to Florida in the winter months are also known as snowbirds though I’m not sure what Floridians and Arizonans who head north in the summer to escape the heat are called - sunbirds, I suppose. But the real bird with the snowbird nickname is the dark-eyed junco. Juncos are among the most common North American songbirds with slight variants found everywhere. Juncos may be present all year in most places, but they prefer to go north to the Canadian and Alaskan tundra or to higher elevations in the Appalachian or Rocky Mountains to breed during the summer. Thus, when they return in large numbers as they have lately in our yard, they bring with them the first snows of winter as they have to us this week. And make me long for the “flowers that will bloom again in the spring.”

In spite of their reputation as harbingers of snow and cold, juncos migrate in response to changes in the light not the temperature. Regardless of the light or the temperature, they always arrive impeccably dressed in their dark grey evening jackets and white shirts with a flash of white on their tails. In fact, the New England variety were once called the slate-colored juncos before the dark eyes won. Other varieties (all of the same species) include gray-headed, Oregon, pink-sided, white-winged, and Guadalupe. Ironically, the Guadalupe junco native to the Mexican island of that name and the source of the junco name is nearly extinct due to predation by feral cats and habitat destruction by feral goats.

Juncos are members of the larger new world sparrow family. They were happy to see our feeders go up last week, but generally prefer to find their sunflower seeds on the ground where they have been dropped by other birds just as they usually feed off of the forest floor in summer. Fairly quiet in the winter, they will sing their loud, steady musical trill once spring arrives….and the flowers bloom again.

It's an upside down world...

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Red-breasted nuthatch

Even the bears don’t know that it’s past their bedtime. But, December begins tomorrow, and New Hampshire Fish and Game says that the bears should be in bed by then so that we can safely put out our bird feeders. I have sneaked in a couple of feeders on the front of our house where bears don’t seem to venture, but the real birdfeeder action is in back nearer the woods and fields. In any event, the migrating birds are mostly gone, and the hardy “year arounders” remain. So far, we have had cardinals, blue jays, chickadees, titmice, assorted finches, flocks of mourning doves, juncos, our three types of woodpeckers, the ubiquitous house sparrows, some robins that may stay the winter, and occasional cameo appearances and surprise visits by others. What am I forgetting? Of course, the upside down birds, especially meaningful in the upside down world of 2020, the nuthatches!

White-breasted nuthatch

There are four species of nuthatches in North America, and only two of them are common in New England. Until recently, I was only familiar with the white-breasted nuthatch that frequented our feeders in winter and the woods around our house in the summer. But last spring I was introduced to the red-breasted version and have seen and heard it frequently ever since. Unlike the white-breasted nuthatch, the red-breasted variety tends to migrate a little to the south in winter - so we will be watching to see if that is true in central New Hampshire.

Nuthatches have strong legs and a strong beak. They walk head-first down tree trunks without using their tail for balance (as the woodpeckers do), and they bang open (hatch) seeds with their beaks. But, the nuthatch name may derive from their earlier nickname - the nut hackers. Unlike the woodpeckers with two toes pointing in each direction, the nuthatches have only their large toe pointing backwards and three toes forward, but this still facilitates their acrobatic clinging to tree trunks.

Nuthatches nest in tree cavities either using those naturally-formed, repurposing cavities created by woodpeckers, or building their own. They aggressively defend their territories and their nests. White-breasted nuthatches will smear very stinky and toxic blister beetles around the nest entrance to deter predators. Blister beetles get their name from their secretion of the blistering agent, cantharidin (a primary ingredient in a folk medicine known as “spanish fly”). Their red-breasted cousins protect their nests by lining the entrance with sticky conifer resin.

Nuthatches are not known for melodious singing, but they can be loud and persistent - especially in the spring. Most of them have a nasal twang to a repetitive “yank yank” sound though the white-breasted and red-breasted songs do differ.

Red-breasted nuthatch hiding a seed for a later meal

Who are you redbird...

in

Sittin’ on a limb

A long lost loved one or dear departed friend

You keep comin’ back to see me every now and then

Who are you redbird, sittin’ on a limb

There’s something about mid-November that seems as colorless as dirt to me. OK, let’s say earthtones. Then this flash of bright red lands nearby looking for the sunflower feeders that the bears took down this week. As a kid I knew them simply as redbirds, but now that I’m a birder, they’re northern cardinals. Though cardinals are around all-year, they keep more to the woods and brush during the summer breeding season. Now, however, they will start coming in large numbers with their more subdued and elegantly-dressed partners. Soon the bears will finally be asleep, and the feeders can go back up for these welcome stately beauties.

Cardinal Thomas Woolsey in robe and biretta

Cardinals were named by early European colonists who were struck by their color and its resemblance to the scarlet robes and birettas (hats) of Roman Catholic cardinals. At the time of the exploration of North America, these human cardinals were not only religious figures but had often assumed roles of secular importance and political power (e.g. Cardinal Thomas Wolsey in the reign of Henry VIII). For the avian version, the red color derives from the carotenoids in their diet deposited in their feathers. Cardinals love the fall berries of the dogwood tree, for example, which are rich in red-pigmented carotenoids. Red, orange, and yellow coloration in birds usually comes from such actual pigments found in their feathers as distinct from blue coloration (eastern bluebird or blue jays) that results from the way that light is refracted by their feathers. If you grind up a cardinal’s feather, you will have a bright red powder. If you grind up a bluebird’s feather, the resulting powder will be dull brown.

Not surprisingly, a flock of cardinals is called a conclave, a congress, even a Vatican or, more lyrically, a radiance. While small flocks are common, cardinals tend to hang out in monogamous pairs even beyond the breeding season. In fact, they tend to mate for life. Northern cardinals are non-migratory and found in all regions of the United States except for the northwest. The other less common subspecies are mostly tropical. Seven states have adopted cardinals as state bird, the most of any species.

Cardinals have a large variety of songs with both males and females engaged in singing. A favorite of mine is also the ring tone on my phone bringing a reminder of this colorful bird whenever someone calls me. Cardinals are believed to bring luck and good fortune and to be spiritual messengers from lost loved ones as in the Milan Miller lyrics above.

Beeyard etiquette...

in

Before it snows as it may tomorrow, I need to say a few words about bees. No, not about birds and bees, just bees. Because bees have been one of the new joys that have helped us through these strange times of the past spring, summer, and now fall. Late last April, with the knowledgeable assistance of our generous neighbors, we had the good fortune to acquire two hives of carniolan bees from a young beekeeper who had become dangerously allergic to bee stings. With that, we began a relationship with the remarkable and complex secret life of bees.

“I hadn't been out to the hives before, so to start off she gave me a lesson in what she called 'bee yard etiquette'. She reminded me that the world was really one bee yard, and the same rules work fine in both places. Don't be afraid, as no life-loving bee wants to sting you. Still, don't be an idiot; wear long sleeves and pants. Don't swat. Don't even think about swatting. If you feel angry, whistle. Anger agitates while whistling melts a bee's temper. Act like you know what you're doing, even if you don't. Above all, send the bees love. Every little thing wants to be loved.”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees

One of our carniolan worker bees enjoying mint flowers in our herb garden in early September.

One of our hives did not do well and seemed to dwindle by the week until it died, but the other, our East Hive, has thrived. So, with cold weather looming and no pollen or nectar left in our yard or fields, we are preparing them for winter with extra food (sugar syrup) and measures to keep the hive insulated and free of moisture, mice, and other hazards. While they need their own honey to live on through the winter, we are hoping they can spare a little for us to sweeten a holiday season in quarantine.

We have learned a lot from our neighbor, from books, and from YouTube, but also so much from the ladies of the beehive and the business of their daily survival. Their complex social organization with a queen responsible for regenerating her populace, 50,000 of her daughters with 45 days in which to complete their multifaceted life’s work, and a half-dozen sons (the drones) who always seem to be hunting around for the remote rivals that of any human society. We watched those female workers build their wax “cities” of hexagonal spaces into birthing centers, food storage rooms, and infrastructure while they attended to the queen, guarded the entrance, foraged for pollen and nectar, cleaned house, and presided over the births of their heirs and the deaths of their elders.

Returning to our East Hive laden with pollen (note the yellow and orange saddlebags on their legs) of differing colors from different plants.

Not everyone will have the opportunity to know bees, and I don’t have room here to pass along even what little we have learned so far (a small measure of what we have still to learn). But read something more about bees, watch a movie about bees, or join a social media beekeepers group or, at least, when you see them at their work, send them some loving kindness knowing “every little thing wants to be loved.”

The hazards of birding and the most famous thrush...

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As most of you must know, birding is a dangerous pasttime - mostly due to the risk of a certain obsessiveness. And the various pitfalls, I mean the literal pitfalls - roots, rocks, puddles, small children under your feet - as you look skyward with your binoculars glued to your eyes. Last week I missed my usual blog day due to a a birding mishap common in my New England region. I contracted one of the tick-borne diseases, probably anaplasmosis, and, all kidding aside, was quite ill for a number of days. This was complicated at first by the possibility my symptoms might be COVID. Fortunately not, and fortunately I had a treatable though serious condition. (If you aren’t familiar with it, click on the link and read about it, if you live in a tick infested region.)

Last week, robins were in my blog sights. The robin must have been the earliest and only bird on my life list from about age 3 in Illinois to around age 26 when I bought my first bird feeder in Michigan. American robins are members of the thrush family along with bluebirds, veerys (yes, double “e”), thrushes, and a few less familiar species, and they nest, breed, feed, and sing literally everywhere in the continental United States. I thought: “They’re too common and familiar; no one wants to read a blog about robins.” But, robins are iconic, and in the spring and fall they turn up in such large flocks in our yard and the nearby fields chortling amiably as they browse for worms, that I wanted to honor their presence.

While most of the robins’ thrush brethren have thrush names, the many robin species of the world are not thrushes and have no familial relation to the American robin. In fact early European colonists christened robins with their name because they thought they resembled the European robin due to its bright breast. The term robin red-beast was coined in England referring to the European robin, which is a chat not a thrush.

Our American robin remains a harbinger of spring in many localities though robins may also reside throughout the year nearly everywhere in the US. When migrations occur, they may be short and regional or they may extend over long distances. Much depends on local conditions of food, shelter, and weather. Perhaps their reputation for marking the end of winter comes from their tendency to flock up in the spring and switch from their diet of fruits and berries from trees and shrubs in the winter to that of worms on the ground in the spring. Robins simply become more visible as the snow disappears and the ground softens.

Finally, though the California condor was certainly the poster bird of the campaign against DDT following Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring (1962), the American robin played a crucial role in developing the case against DDT. In the spring of 1963, the town of Hanover, New Hampshire, decided to spray its elm trees with DDT to kill bark beetles. Charles Wurster, a young PhD organic chemist at Dartmouth, decided to check on the effects of DDT on other non-insect species. He and his colleagues conducted bird counts and found no fatalities among birds in the days following spraying. Within weeks, however, Wurster collected and dissected 151 bird carcasses, mostly robins. They found that DDT had caused major neurological damage resulting in seizures and death among the birds. Wurster went on to join other scientists to establish the Environmental Defense Fund with the explicit goal of eliminating the use of DDT. A DDT-induced decline in robin populations continued until 1967 when the vestiges of DDT began to disappear from earthworms and from the soil. The rest is history - a history that unfortunately remains an on-going concern.

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