The Kellogg Columns

From mid-October to mid-December the waterfowl and seabirds of North America are migrating to their winter quarters on the Atlantic, Pacific and Gulf coasts. In New England a visit in late fall to Cape Ann, Newburyport, Plymouth, Cape Cod, Buzzard's Bay or Narragansett Bay is sure to provide many opportunities to view a wide variety of these ducks. In the East many species prefer the warmer climes south of New Jersey, but some are adapted to find food in colder waters.

Last week I described an encounter with an oldsquaw that had stopped at a local lake on its way to the coast. It nests in the Arctic from Labrador to the Yukon, even all around the coasts of Greenland and the icy islands of northern Canada. They look much like an ice duck, pied black and white, matching both the liquid and frozen form of their cold watery element. Many individuals of this species stay all year in the cold seas along the southern coast of Greenland and from Newfoundland to Maine, but many also spend the winter in Massachusetts waters.

You can get a sense of how many ducks there are in North America by standing on an ocean promontory on a late fall day with a blustery wind blowing in your face from the Northeast. I can remember the first time I visited Sandy Neck Beach in Barnstable and the oldsquaws were constantly streaming by low over the surf in line after line. The estimate after a couple of hours was several thousand. My elderly mother was with me, and she was amazed. For years she was asking when we could see that sight again.

One spectacle I have never seen is the one that takes place each winter day near the eastern shore of Nantucket Island. Those who witness the passage of tens of thousands of oldsquaws at dawn and dusk there speak of it with awe. These birds feed each day on Nantucket Shoals, long the bane of New England mariners, but the larder to the little duck who dives deep for the shellfish that cling to the dangerous underwater rocks. At night they retire from the open ocean to rest on the calmer waters of Nantucket Sound, north of the island. Maximum counts made recently were 165,000 on December 7, 1997, and 200,000 on March 30, 1996.

So where did they get such a name as "oldsquaw?" They got it because of their voice, something I have never heard. It is said to be musical and merry, transcribed poorly as ow-ooddle-ow, very unlike the typical utterances of ducks. This unique vocal talent is also used at every opportunity when gathered in flocks, as they migrate, cavort, and especially court.

The name, then, originated as a rather unkind comment on female indigenous Americans, suggesting that they are talkative to an extreme. It has been called many another poetic name, such as old granny, old molly, Aunt Huldy, scolder, cockawee, and quandy. Those with a more prosaic bent prefer a name like long-tailed duck, but oldsquaw it is. Let us consider the name a compliment instead, and suggest that it is the sweetness and vibrancy of those notes that give the bird its name.

These odd names can be confusing for the non-birder. To illustrate let me return to the original subject that introduced this topic, the spotting telescope. On my first trip to the coast in late winter, 1969, I did not own one. I stood at the seawall at Newburyport, straining my eyes through a pair of binoculars, trying to make out the forms and colors of ducks never seen before.

Another car pulled up and a man set up his telescope nearby. After a few minutes he invited me to take a look, asking me if I "wanted to see the oldsquaw." It was my first clear look. My spouse also took a peek, though she was only along for the ride and not much interested in these feathered creatures. Later she asked me how we knew that the one bird in the picture was the "old" squaw, the matriarch of all those other ducks?

Perhaps one of those was the matriarch. Someday I hope to get close enough to hear her merry song.

The warm weather since Thanksgiving is the result of a jet stream that dips down to Texas and then up through the east to New England. A sustained warm flow of air from so far to our southwest might bring a "blowback" of birds to us. Such wandering birds are much more likely near the coast, especially in a "migrant trap" like the famous Mt. Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge. Migrants concentrate in this green oasis amidst an urban concrete landscape.

The hotlines and the internet had been humming with news of several such birds at Mt. Auburn and the Boston Public Gardens. I mentioned this in my monthly report to the December meeting of the Allen Bird Club. Some adventurous members made arrangements then to try to see these birds the following Saturday. It was about 20 degrees at 7 am when we started down the Masspike, buoyed by the latest news that the birds were still there the previous day.

We drove down the Central Avenue through the beautiful landscaping of Mt. Auburn until we happened on stopped cars and a cluster of birders. Sitting on top of a monument was the bird, oblivious to onlookers and intent on finding the elusive insect larva that was hidden in the grass or attached to the stones. It was an ash-throated flycatcher, flaunting its chestnut wing patches and tail as it fluttered from stone to bush to stone. When it faced us the pale yellow wash on its belly shone in the morning sunlight, contrasting with its dusky white throat and dark gray back.

This species is common in the southwest from Oregon to Texas, but here in Massachusetts it has been found only a dozen times ever, all in late fall or early winter. I had seen one on December 7, 1979 a few miles away in another part of Cambridge, almost 19 years ago to the day. Others had never seen the species at all, but for me it was still a thrill to renew acquaintance with this western species here in blustery Massachusetts.

By the time we arrived at the Boston Public Gardens the wind had picked up and we had to put on our heavy coats. How could these birds survive in such weather? The park was busy with walkers and tourists on a Saturday morning. Around the half-frozen pond were a dozen willow trees, and most of the leaves were still clinging to the drooping branches. Flitting among them and finding the life-giving insect larva was an orange-crowned warbler, the subtle yet dapper olive green back almost identical to the leaf color.

Where was the yellow-throated warbler? Both warblers had always been found in the willows before, but we finally decided to follow up on a report that this one was seen in a far corner of the park earlier in the morning. We peered at the bare bushes and the few evergreens there, but still no warbler. The traffic whizzed by on Beacon Street and the tall apartment buildings loomed large over us. One of the group aimed her binoculars at a first-floor balcony across the street where bittersweet vines and decorative cabbage were still flourishing in plant boxes. "I think I have the bird," she said.

There it was, gathering in larva from the ironwork and the plants, turning constantly so we could see its blue back and bright yellow throat. This was a hard place and time for such a bird, but it was being remarkably resourceful, clutching to life against all odds in a world that was alien and indifferent. The yellow-throated is a southern, tropical warbler, breeding from Delaware to Florida and west to Texas. However, it is surprisingly hardy, many individuals remaining in Georgia and Florida all winter. This individual would be severely tested in New England.

The orange-crowned warbler is even more attuned to cold, breeding to our north from Quebec to Alaska, and wintering throughout the south to California. One was found on the Christmas Count last year in Northampton. This is the first weekend of the Christmas Count season and every eye of every birder is out in the field as you read this, recording all the birds, the rare and the common. Next week I will have a report on the Springfield and Northampton area counts.

Last evening, when the sun went to sleep, were we sure it would awaken again? Even the "primitive" minds of millenniums ago knew it would, but they recognized the significance of the cycle of day and night. In northern latitudes the cycle of summer and winter was even more important than the daily cycle. The slow descent of the sun from overhead toward the horizon was a time of survival, when creatures migrated south or lay low on gathered stores. Last evening, the 21st day of the month, the sun finally halted its descent, and we know it rises today a little farther north, and spring will come again.

The reversal of movement, which is the winter solstice, was seen as an act of divine intervention, a gift of precarious life from greater powers. Celebrations were in order, and all welcomed the turning of the sun back toward the zenith with joy and thanksgiving. In the 19th century in America one form of celebration was the annual Christmas hunt, when men would venture out with their weapons to shoot as many birds as they could, with modest glory to the one with the highest tally. The tradition stemmed probably from that harvesting instinct to survive the winter. Like so many things human, it had gotten a little out of hand.

A hundred years ago, in reaction, a new celebration of just counting the birds was begun. Today, all over North America, avid birders are venturing into the field to an assigned area and counting the birds they find. Saturday was the first day of a three-week period in which local bird clubs could organize their count, and over forty people in 25 parties covered the Springfield area from before dawn until after dusk.

It was my 30th consecutive year in scouring a portion of Agawam that I had inherited from a retiring couple in 1969. This tradition is so strong that such areas are coveted and defended much as a bird defends its feeding grounds. In winter most birds remain in a small territory, much as they do when nesting. One of the first birds of the day was a Great Horned Owl calling out to the world his claim to a patch of woods and fields. From then on it was a feast of sparrows and chickadees and finches, the numbers jotted down at the end of each walk through a field or woodlot, until at dusk the same owl was heard calling again.

The Springfield area is densely settled with houses and roads and businesses almost everywhere, but you would be surprised at how many wild places there still are, where birds squeeze in among the people. Most parties noted about 35-40 species, and all together 75 species were reported at the compilation dinner that night.

The joy in this enterprise comes with the feeling of discovery each time we hear or see birds lurking in the brush or sweeping across a meadow, or flitting through the trees. Finding and identifying birds is a skill acquired with many hours and days in the field. The Christmas Count is a like an annual exam, in which you test yourself and do the best you possibly can. Success is measured not so much by the numbers at the end of the day, but rather by the sense of encounter and communion between yourself and other living creatures.

We had some especially exciting discoveries during the day, but my favorite was the smallest bird of all, the kinglet with the golden crown. This tiny bundle of energy is at home in our cold wintry climate, finding minuscule insect larva among the needles of evergreen trees. They come from the northern boreal forests in late fall and grace our woodlands with their incessant soprano song, too high for me to hear now.

They remind me of angels, wings beating madly even when alight, their pale bodies capped by a halo of gold that they seem to flash at your eyes, saying "I may be small in stature, but I am a royal gift." Perhaps they are a sliver of the sun, now low in the sky, but promising renewed life. My heart is gladdened by the golden-crowned kinglet, the bird of the season.

The Westfield area bird count was scheduled for the day after Christmas, and one of the highlights was the large numbers of blackbirds recorded. With the ground bare, blackbirds have been hanging out on local meadows and lawns, usually in flocks of from fifty to a few thousand individuals. Large flocks were usually a mixed group of grackles, red-winged blackbirds, and cowbirds. By late December these three species are usually gone from New England, forming mega-flocks of tens of thousands that are not so welcome in the rural south.

Two weeks ago a hundred or more cowbirds arrived at my feeder. They covered the ground, packed in so tightly they had to lift their short tails in the air to avoid swatting their neighbors. I decided there would be no seed spread at all until they moved on. Without snow the other birds would find enough to eat in the wild for a few days. But they returned to my restocked feeders, once in a flock of several hundred. On count day there were two hundred feeding at the house and another four hundred down the road.

The cowbird was once only a Great Plains species that followed the great herds of roaming bison. None inhabited the nearly continuous forests of eastern North America when the Europeans colonized it. The cowbird had adapted to become a "generalist parasite," laying its eggs in the nests of other species for the adoptive parents to raise. Finding seeds and insects around the churning feet and fresh droppings of the grazing bison did not allow them to build a nest and parent in one place. Like the plains people themselves, they followed the bison wherever and whenever they moved.

Europeans pushed west and cut the eastern forests, bringing their cattle with them. The cowbird pushed into this new habitat and eventually colonized the whole of North America. Many species of birds confined to the east had no experience or defense against these larger, quicker hatching eggs and fast-growing young that pushed out their "sibling" rivals from the nest to die. Rarer species, such as the Kirtland's warbler of northern Michigan, would have been exterminated without cowbird control programs. Some people would like to see a nearly universal control to reduce the huge cowbird numbers.

I admit to a visceral dislike myself for these hordes of eating machines with the "bad" breeding habits. Although they are living creatures that survive as best they can, their story reminds us that living at the expense of other life, though natural, is no ideal. As the dominant survivor on earth, the human species is looking for other models of behavior rather than just blindly pushing each other, or the rest of life, out of the nest.

As if to remind us even more of the gory side of nature, one party on the count saw a turkey vulture soaring low over the treetops. There is probably plenty of carrion for these birds in the winter, but it is usually harder to find. If snow doesn't cover a dead animal, then it freezes, locking in the decay that would release the telltale aroma that the keen vulture nose can detect. This was the first vulture ever seen on a western Massachusetts Christmas Count, and a prize for those who found it.

For those who rose very early, screech owls were easy to hear as they responded to tape recordings of their call. One party had three birds calling in one place and another two, with a dozen counted altogether. The Barred owl is a large forest loving bird, that is usually reluctant to call. One of the two noted only called at the very last minute as the listener was just about to get back in his car.

Woodpeckers were another highlight. Downy, hairy, and red-bellied woodpeckers were quite common and two of the big pileated woodpeckers were seen. There were quite a few flickers, which need bare ground to survive the winter. There was also a very rare red-headed woodpecker coming to a Westfield feeder. It was an immature bird with a completely brown head and throat, and a black back with bright white wing and rump patches. Another one of these was reported in Monson a month ago. If you have one coming to your feeder let me know, but be sure it isn't the red-bellied woodpecker, whose red is confined to the crown and back of the head. I will write more about this bird next week.

Many old stories tell of how the creatures of the world were named. Having a name may not be important to them, but to us it seems essential. There is a practical purpose for naming, but it also has the imaginative purpose of bringing the creature and the name giver into a bond that leads to care and keeping. A threatening universe is demystified and we take on the role of gardener.

The urge to have a name for a bird is very strong. Sometimes, when people call to describe a bird that is unusual to them, the marks they note are not the key ones that would distinguish the species from others. There are even times when a mark seems wrong for a species, but is only confusing because it wasn't the important one.

This was true of the red-headed woodpecker I talked about last week. The caller mentioned a white rump patch between the dark back and upper tail feathers. The flicker immediately came to mind because this is one of the quick ways to identify that species in flight. It turns out four members of the woodpecker family in eastern North America have that white rump patch. Besides these two, there is the yellow-bellied sapsucker and the red-bellied woodpecker. Birders notice the patch only on the flicker because the other three have other distinctive markings.

Plumage is not the only way to distinguish a species, and the more you watch birds, the more you use keys like habitat and various aspects of behavior such as posture, feeding, or flying. This way you can eliminate many species before you zero in on the likely suspects. In many ways identification is like a murder mystery and the detective's job is to separate the pertinent details from the inconsequential. That red head may be a red herring.

The red-headed woodpecker has a black back with white wing patches, which is very obvious on a flying bird and lacking in other woodpeckers, so that mark is essential. On the other hand almost all woodpeckers have some red on their head. The very common downy and hairy woodpeckers have an obvious red blotch on the back of the head - at least the males do. The huge crescent on the pileated woodpecker is bright red. The flicker has a red mark on the back of the head, the male yellow-bellied sapsucker has one on the forehead, and the red-bellied woodpecker has red on the fore and rear part of the head or just on the rear head, depending on whether it is a male or female.

So the name "red-headed woodpecker" for this species may not have been the best choice, especially when young birds all have a brown head. It becomes red as the bird molts during the winter into its first spring breeding plumage. The key is that the entire head is red, so the term "red-hooded" might have been more apt.

One name that is not much use for identification is "red-bellied woodpecker." Almost all bird names were decided upon by early naturalists, who examined a dead specimen in their hands after it had been collected (shot). The naturalist in this case noticed a blush of light red coloring on the breast, which no other woodpecker had, so red-bellied it was and is. I confess to being less interested in studying the subtleties of plumage than some people. To me it sometimes can be a case of overlooking the forest for the trees. One friend takes this to an extreme, boasting that he forgets what a bird looks like the minute it is out of sight and so gets a first-time thrill practically every time he sees any bird. It is not a bad approach, but most of us want to build up our knowledge and skill. Two of my particular interests are knowing the abundance of a species and when it moves.  After enjoying the beauty of a bird, I want to know how many there are around, as well as when it comes and goes. This is an intriguing story for the red-bellied woodpecker, which I will tell next week.

The now legendary Roger Tory Peterson answered a question once by saying "Birds have wings you know." So do people, and especially modern Americans. We are mostly a nation of movers and migrants, bearing the mantle of the traveler and seeker, searching for the lost city of gold. Our children spread those wings and find their way in another state out west or down south, or just across town.

When we consider the movement of birds, we first think of the twice a year migration that many retirees do. In Texas they call those folks who flee the Minnesota cold each winter "snowbirds." Then there is another instinct that is also important, the desire to disperse, to find that place to settle down away from the parent nest.

For some bird species this is the only movement they ever do. In New England there are eighteen species that lack the instinct to migrate in spring and fall. For better or worse they do not seek out a different climate for winter, sticking it out as best they can, and in the end doing just fine. They survive so well that there would be too many of them near the hatching home unless they used those wings and struck out permanently for parts unknown. For some of those eighteen this means moving north.

In the last half of this tired old century there are four species that have colonized New England, originating from their range in the south, the cardinal, tufted titmouse, mockingbird and, most recently, the red-bellied woodpecker. In the fall a young bird is "encouraged" by its parents to find a new home. Mom and dad need this ground to raise next year's crop, thank you very much. So off the youngster goes to seek a fortune, perhaps ending up in the next valley, but often flying quite far to find an unoccupied spot. The young red-bellied woodpecker could always find such a place farther north. When winter came, the resources to survive were somehow found and the bird thrived.

Just about the time I started birding, the first red-bellied woodpeckers appeared in the Connecticut River Valley. These woodpeckers had appeared only ten years earlier in the New York City area. They moved along the Connecticut coast and pushed up the river valley, finding the wooded river bottoms that were their favorite habitat. The very first was found in May of 1967 in Amherst and another spent two days in Pelham in March of 1969. These were temporary scouts that overstepped their bounds and probably had to return south in order to find a mate.

The new woodpecker began to appear regularly in Agawam, Southwick and Longmeadow, usually in the winter. I saw my first one in January of 1972 in Agawam. Birders who wanted to put the species on their lifelist for the state traveled from Pittsfield and Greenfield and Boston to see them. In the winter of 1976 I showed off a bird to many people in Southwick, and the next June I found a nest hole with the young birds poking their heads out, waiting to be fed. Like the other three species before them, the red-bellied woodpecker had arrived.

This is a large, noisy woodpecker, giving its rolling "churr" call often as it forages on trunks and branches for insect food hidden in and under the bark. It prefers nearly mature lowland forest, but will settle for a medium sized woodlot. It is fairly common within 15 miles of the Connecticut River, and is slowly working its way up tributaries into the hills. Worcester and the Housatonic Valley have a few birds now, and it has colonized the Boston area. Their numbers are on the verge of exploding as the young birds fill every piece of real estate they can find.

They readily come to suet feeders and will eat seed more than our other woodpecker species. They will alight on the ground to do this. They seem to co-exist well with our traditional woodpeckers, the hairy and downy. The handsome tan coloring of the belly, throat and cheek is complimented by the zebra barring of the back and wings. The red on the head is rich without being deep, covering the back of the female's neck, but extending all the way to the forehead on the male. What a wonderful addition to New England Wildlife!

A friend of mine in Pittsfield usually tells me what birds are coming to his feeder. Like all of us he would enjoy having more than he has, and to that end he almost always comments on the need for snow "to drive the birds in." During a warm spell as it was in December, the feeder visitors are rather scarce. The weeds and branches in the wild are accessible, teeming with the wild food the birds prefer, either seeds or insect larva.

That does not mean they don't come in to feed at all; just less often. In any given area of fields and woods there are a limited number of birds, and in the dead of winter (an ominous phrase) they are the same individuals, which have "chosen" that area for their wintering grounds. They may also visit several different feeders in the neighborhood periodically throughout the day.

Well, now we have our snow, and a particularly difficult type of snow it is, with fluctuating temperatures causing ice to form wherever the snow was cleared or plowed. Every driveway is a slippery mess and my three ground feeding areas are a solid sheet. I have resorted to spreading doses of ground seed on top of the undisturbed snow, and more than once or twice a day. There have never been so many small birds at the feeder before. The ground is almost always covered with them, mostly juncos with ten or so each of tree sparrows and white-throated sparrows and a few song sparrows. A quick count of the juncos once reached 115 individuals at the same time.

My guess is that there usually is double the number of individuals visiting a feeder during the course of a day than are seen at any one time. There probably is some ambitious researcher working on this question as we speak. A Professor at Mt Holyoke College has banded chickadees for many years and she can read the band through her windows and determine how many actually do visit. If suddenly there are no birds at all around, a sharp-shinned or Cooper's hawk is probably visiting.

The heaviest feeding occurs at dawn and before dusk, as well as any time there is precipitation or the threat of it. Extreme cold helps to "drive them in" as well. A fresh sprinkling of mixed seed or plain millet on the ground before first light and in mid-afternoon is not a bad idea anytime. During bad weather do it more often. There is something about the sight of a flock of busy eaters enjoying one's effort that warms the nurturing side of our heart.

Never put mixed seed in an enclosed or hanging feeder where the birds that visit must cling or perch precariously. The species that eat mixed seed are not adapted to cling or perch. They like to have a steady piece of real estate under their feet. Place only sunflower seed or thistle in such feeders. A platform or a hopper with a roomy area at the bottom is all right for the mixed seed too, but the ground is best.

The cardinal is a ground feeder and their numbers have swelled with the snow to about six or eight. There have been as many as fifteen at once in past winters. They are especially prone to feed just before dusk along with those white-throated sparrows. It is a long, cold night and they need that last stoke of fuel to bring them through it.

Then they find that favorite spot in an evergreen bush or other protected spot on the lee side of a hill or house to huddle up, fluff out the insulating feathers and nap away the night. In the morning they hurry out to feed again, at first in silent semi-desperation, but as they find the food, they begin a soft twittering celebration.

Winter is a hard time for everyone. If you want to nourish your generous side and have it grow strong so as to use it on your family, friends, and needy neighbors, there is no better place to start than with the grateful feathered creatures outside your window.

Down a side road past a large state park in the village of Millington, New Jersey, there is a small building that looks much like a ranch house, but is the headquarters of the Raptor Trust. The founder and director is a dynamic gentleman named Leonard Soucy. Next door to the headquarters, nestled among the trees, are 50 large cages containing mostly birds of prey, but also some with the lowly pigeon or crow.

Our host did not say much as we strolled among the cages during our lunch break from a hawk association board meeting. He knew he was among people who were very familiar with the hawks, owls and eagles that had to be kept here permanently because of injuries sustained in encounters with human structures and activities.

We admired the still magnificent birds housed here, the beautiful white snowy owls from the Arctic and the even more beautiful albino red-tailed hawk that looked like a delicate fairy from another world. Then there were the eagles, two stately bald eagles, one with only one wing, and then a golden eagle, looking down on us from her perch. She was so close we could feel the steely glint in her eye as she gazed upon us with seeming disdain. The look, the immense size, and the shiny golden hackles on the back of her neck seemed to melt the very fencing between us and she was again queen of the air, surrounded by her loyal ground dwelling subjects.

Then we entered the infirmary, where the real work is done. Here Len held forth, explaining the work done to try to rehabilitate the eight thousand birds that are brought to this place each year. Seven permanent staff and seventy volunteers help him set fractures, relieve concussions, or repair gunshot wounds. About ten per cent of the birds have been found to be shot. This problem is diminishing and is more a product of mistakes by shooters than the fatal antagonism that used to be prevalent.

There is more concern now about the mayhem that is caused by tall buildings and towers as well as moving vehicles. Originally only raptors were accepted for rehabilitation, but Len soon realized he had to accept all birds, the need was so great with absolutely no place else to go. Those who find injured animals show concern for their welfare, but this contrasts starkly with the seeming indifference to the issue of reducing the sources of the damage.

Only a tiny fraction of the birds affected are brought to such places, and if the wounds cannot be healed so as to release them back to the wild, then the victims are "sent to heaven," as Len so quaintly puts it. Dying is not the problem, unknowing or needless hurting is. We can do so much better. Consider the bald eagle.

Two weeks ago Massachusetts Fish & Wildlife held the annual bald eagle census as part of the federal effort to restore the population of our national bird. For fifteen years I have surveyed the Connecticut River from Holyoke to Agawam. Often in those early days no birds were found, but this time there were three adults, one in South Hadley opposite the dinosaur tracks above the Holyoke dam and two below the dam.

When the river freezes, the birds resort to the rapids where open water can provide the fish on which they feed. Even the fact that such prey was there in a river once fouled with poison is a cause for pride. For the first time I sighted two together sitting in one tree within a half mile of the downtown center.

The bald eagle, osprey, and peregrine falcon have all come back, thanks to our determination to correct a wrong we had done. But at the same time our actions have greatly affected three still common raptors, the American kestrel, sharp-shinned hawk, and broad-winged hawk. For different and complex reasons their numbers are steadily declining, and it is clearly our actions as a community that are causing the decline. To right this wrong we need to act as a community as well.

Most people who have ever put up a bird nesting box know the house wren, the tiny, super active brown bird with the cocked tail who sits and sings his bubbly song incessantly. Thinking of it now on a dark, frigid early morning, I long for the warming winds of late April, when this bird will return from the south.

A few fortunate people in the Connecticut River Valley have a wren or two in their yard now, including a gentleman from Greenfield who has written me a note about a pair at his feeder.  However, his birds are not house wrens. They are Carolina wrens, and even in January when the sun brightens the snow this wren will sing its loud, clear rolling song. If you have heard the tufted titmouse belt out his two-note song over and over, then just add a third note and you have the song of the Carolina wren.

This wren might be added to the list of species that do not migrate and have expanded their range north into New England in the last forty years, but it does not quite qualify.  The Greenfield writer asks why not, because a pair are spending the winter in his yard for the second year in a row.  He has seen the red-bellied woodpecker, which is on the list, only once ever.

The difference is that the Carolina wren has been trying to move north for a long time, and has not made much progress. The few individuals we have with us are perpetual pioneers, always setting out to colonize the new frontier, but always getting massacred by the resisting natives, ice and snow.

Between 1963 and 1968 there were no Carolina wrens found on the May census conducted by the Allen Bird Club. I can remember waiting for hours in a cold car to see one at a feeder in March of 1969, but it was not until August of 1974 that I heard and saw my first in the Stebbins Refuge of Longmeadow.  New England had begun then to enjoy a series of mild, open winters.

From 1969 to 1975 as many as six Carolina wrens were present for the census.  Then several hard winters kept numbers to one or none for seven years. Starting in 1986, very mild winters took over, and census counts swelled slowly until 21 were counted in May of 1992. That December on the Christmas count there were 49 tallied.  Then another hard winter or two ensued, until in 1996 only two were on the census and six on the Christmas count.

In order to survive the winter, a Carolina wren must be able find larva on the ground beneath the leaf litter. It is simply not adapted to finding them on the bare tree trunks or branches. It does eat some seed, but that is not the mainstay of its diet, even in winter, so only suet or peanut butter would help it through the bad times. The only place in New England that this species has been able to persist in any numbers is within a few miles of the coast from New York City to Cape Cod.

The Carolina wren is one of those species that will be "driven in to feeders" when the snow and ice takes over. Two days ago I received two photos showing an individual as it clung to a tree trunk and perched on some suet.  It is distinctive with a rich brown back, light undersides washed with rusty color, thin bill and cocked tail, and the prominent white stripe above the eye.

The owner of the feeder was none other than the Agawam hostess of the famous rufous hummingbird.  I have rather sad news to tell about the hummingbird. No, Rufie is not dead or gone. To the contrary she is as lively as ever in her Northampton greenhouse.  A little too lively it seems. Her territorial instincts were just too strong. She found a way around the divider that separated her from the male that had been sharing her quarters. The caretaker was out and within a few hours the male lay dead on the floor, a victim of a rivalry as intense as any could be.

The ice and snow got so bad a few weeks ago that on the ground were three crows, scrounging fallen bits of food from the frozen surface. It was a difficult time for even this notorious eater of everything and anything. The crow is reputed to be the most intelligent of all the avian kingdom, and can be trained to speak words like "hello" or "nevermore."

The crow fits into the human landscape quite well, but it has a close cousin which is a bird of remote mountains. This is the stately raven, which few encounter unless they live in the hills and know its voice, so unlike the high-pitched raucous call of the crow. The raven is another species which has moved in to Massachusetts and does not migrate away in the winter. However, it comes to us from the mountains of northern New England.

The raven is a widespread species, present in the mountain west as well as the east. Out west it thrives on the steep slopes and canyon walls of the younger Rockies. Here in the east the hills are old and stooped and the raven must search for the cliffs where it builds its nest and rears its young. Perhaps that is why it took so long for it to put down a foothold in Massachusetts. The few cliffs we have were once the home of the peregrine falcon. Once the falcon was eliminated by DDT fifty years ago, the raven could move in to fill that vacant niche. You can find this bird not too far from civilization nesting on Mt Tom and Mt Tekoa.

In the winter it ranges farther afield, but never strays too far except for the young birds which disperse to find their fortune. To find it then one has to drive up into the hills. Don't stop if you see several black birds in a tree or field. They are crows. But if you see only one or none in a houseless spot, then stop. A single bird in a tree top nearby might take off and give vent to its displeasure at being disturbed. You will stand among the silent, forested hills, and hear the deep, sonorous, heart-rending croak of the wild raven.

It can be a call that rends the heart, for this bird is usually found alone, and its hoarse call echoing down the steep valleys reminds us somehow of lost romance and departed lovers.

I was prompted to write of this bird by a Sunday night visit to CityStage, where I heard John Astin recite Edgar Allen Poe's familiar poem "The Raven." In the poem the raven comes tapping on the door of a man who has lost his love. The bird enters his chamber and sits on the statue of Pallas, the goddess of wisdom. The forlorn lover tries to elicit wisdom from the bird, but it speaks only of the finality of death and separation, offering the single word "nevermore"!

Poets often draw their images from the birds; from the owl, the dove and the lowly sparrow. The call and coloring of the raven and its reclusive habits lend it to the role of representing the lonely, sometimes terrifying night, when we feel most vulnerable. However, the raven is a bird of the daylight, and like all creatures a seeker of life and even love, not loss.

When spring comes they will mate and raise their young, and in the fall they will gather together in small groups, soaring and circling over their craggy mountain home, calling to each other. This is when they are at their best, pleasant company for each other and the intrepid hiker or hawk watcher. Unlike the crow their broad wings give them the gliding skill of a hawk, and sometimes twenty or more will fill the sky overhead.

Then if you are with another or others it will bind you together in closer communion. And if you are alone you may think of family and friends waiting for your return from the wild. And if they remind you of an absent love, it will only be with a sense of joy that you may soon be reunited.