Cowbird Round-Up

My backyard bird feeders had been out perhaps a week when I saw a bird I'd never seen caught my eye. Similar in size to a red-winged blackbird but a glossy black with a chocolate-brown head, this bird hopped along the top of our deck rail, ignoring and being ignored by the goldfinches and house finches feasting there. Upon encountering a safflower seed or oil sunflower seed, the bird would swiftly snatch up this little goodie in its long, sharp beak, then quickly flap away before any of the other birds could challenge it for the treat. I watched in amusement, wondering how the tiny finches and sparrows could possibly be perceived as a threat to a bird more than twice their size.

That was my introduction to the brown-headed cowbird. A member of the blackbird family, the brown-headed cowbird is considered a parasitic species. Its females do not nest like most other birds do, nor do the cowbirds raise their own young. Instead, the female cowbird will lay her egg in the nest of another bird, usually a small bird. The host bird occasionally recognizes that the egg in her nest is not her own and may dump it out, build another layer of nest over it, or abandon the nest for a new one. More often, however, the host bird will incubate the cowbird egg along with her own and, once hatched, feed and raise the baby cowbird as if it were her own, too.

The female host bird comes across like the world's best adoptive mother, but the truth is that she's being set up as an unwitting participant in a clear case of survival of the fittest. Cowbird nestlings hatch days earlier than most bird eggs do, giving the baby cowbird a head start on growing, taking up room in the nest, and making demands on the adoptive parent birds for food. When the host bird eggs hatch, chances are that the littlest nestlings -- or, in some instances, all the nestlings -- will be ignored as weak and puny compared to the cowbird nestling. In other words, the parents will not feed the tiny hatchlings or may even toss their own babies out of the nest in order to concentrate on the bigger, hungrier cowbird baby. This way, the survival of the cowbird species is secured without the cowbird female having to do a lick of work.

Not that cowbird females are particularly bright. Although much prettier than their male brown-headed counterparts -- they are a soft, dove-grey color -- the females are oblivious of their surroundings. I've had a female cowbird fly into our sliding glass kitchen door twice, and I've seen one perform amazing calisthenics in an attempt to feed from a hummingbird feeder. Every week, I have invariably had to release a half-dozen cowbird females from our repeating sparrow trap... one particular female three times! I lost my respect for cowbirds after that.

They are, however, federally protected by the Migratory Bird Act, although it's my understanding that in some states, they are viewed as badly as the Canada goose and rock pigeon. Still, this means that a cowbird cannot be hunted, its feathers collected, or its eggs or babies touched.

This never came into consideration until two days ago, when I was monitoring my bluebird trail and I heard a strange cheeping. Looking up at a nearby blue spruce, I noticed a small brown bird perched on the very tip, an insect held in its beak... and cheeping coming from somewhere within the tree. I watched the bird hop into the tree, then fly away to search for more insects to feed the hatchlings, wherever they were in the tree.

Curious, I walked around the spruce, only to find a little hatchling in the grass about a foot away from the tree, dead. The little bird could not have been longer than my thumb, and it certainly did not have much besides down and feather sheaths. It was too young to have fledged -- flown out of the nest -- early; by my estimates, it had a good week or so more to spend in the nest. What had happened?

Circling around the tree in search of the nest, I found another little hatchling head-down in the grass. I carefully extricated it from where it was tangled, noting that one of its legs was twisted terribly beneath it. As I lifted the little bird in my gloved hand, it feebly opened its beak as if to gape for food -- it undoubtedly heard its fellow nestlings cheeping -- then closed its eyes, its head lolling slightly to the right. It died right in my hand.

I was stunned. Two perfectly healthy-looking nestlings dead in one afternoon, on a trail I monitored daily. Had some predator gotten into the nest and scared the two babies into jumping out before they were ready to leave? After burying the little duo, I returned to the blue spruce and searched the crotch of every branch, seeking the nest out of which the babies had tumbled. J brought me a ladder so I could check the higher limbs, but no luck. Still, there were two adult birds perched in the next tree, cheeping regularly and eyeing my actions. The nest had to be somewhere.

When a few more minutes of searching proved equally fruitless, I gave up and leaned down to unlock the stepladder and fold it up. As I leaned, I caught a glimpse of fluttery movement within the spruce. I froze, then very quietly, I lifted a low branch. There, about 30 inches above the ground and perched on the exterior end of a branch, was a dainty little cup nest woven of dried grasses. It could have fit on the palm of my hand, it was so small. And nestled inside were two little baby birds.

I immediately realized what the problem was. One baby bird matched the ones I'd found on the ground: tiny, with fuzzy feathers shaded brown, grey, and blue and a soft grey-streaked white belly. The other baby bird looked like a plucked chicken, or a miniature turkey vulture, with a practically bare pink head and wings with actual feathers. It dwarfed the other bird, its wings and legs barely having enough space to fold in.

It was a cowbird baby.

It would appear that, in an effort to make itself comfortable in the cramped little nest, the cowbird baby accidentally knocked one, then two of its fellow hatchlings out of the nest. As I stood by, the adult birds zipped in, feeding both of the remaining babies repeatedly, the cowbird baby receiving more than its smaller nestmate.

At this rate, the last remaining host baby would be knocked out of the nest in a day or so. I resolved to include the nest -- which I identified through the photos J took as belonging to a chipping sparrow -- in my daily trail monitoring so that, should I find the baby chipping sparrow on the ground, I could put it back in the nest right away.

Sure enough, as I approached the nest yesterday, I witnessed the baby cowbird flutter and stretch, sending the baby chipping sparrow plummeting to the ground. I dove after the baby bird, catching him in my gloved hands and holding him close. I called for M, who came running to assist, having been forewarned about the bird-nest situation. M was in a panic -- he was sure that the little bird would only get knocked out again, and was quite against my returning it to the nest. He insisted I call the local Bird Center to let them know we were coming in with a baby bird. Experience, however, told me that if the parents were nearby -- which they were, cheeping away from the next tree -- the Bird Center would do nothing except counsel us to return the baby to its nest.

The baby chipping sparrow had other ideas.

As I slowly reached towards the nest to return the baby sparrow, the baby cowbird became agitated and hopped out of the nest and further into the tree. At the same time, the baby sparrow escaped from my hands and followed the cowbird in. M was beside himself, scrambling through the grass and reaching into the tree trying to catch the escapees, all the while reminding me that he'd told me not to return the sparrow to its nest.

I came to the front of the tree and spotted the bald little cowbird peeping out from beneath. In a blink of an eye, I had him safely in my birding bucket. The cowbird cheeped plaintively, hopping around inside the bucket, as M and I continued to search for the little sparrow. It was hopeless -- his feathers camouflaged him well, and he could not be found. Of course, I had to leave then in order to get to work on time; M volunteered to stay behind, searching for the missing baby. I recommended stepping away for a half-hour or so, allowing the little sparrow to calm down, then begin the search in a less frenzied manner. With the adult chipping sparrows nearby, surely the baby wouldn't have gone too far. I asked M to return the baby cowbird to the nest as well, despite the crampd condition, and to call me to keep me informed.

I returned home several hours later to find M still combing the tall grasses around the spruce for the baby sparrow. After checking to make sure the cowbird baby was still in the nest, I began the search as well, but called it off as the evening mosquitoes came out in full force. I promised M I'd start looking again in the morning.

This morning, much to my exasperation, the cowbird baby was gone. All there was to be seen was the empty little nest and two sparrows cheeping from the nearby tree.

As I listened, I heard a soft peep calling in return. With hopes high, I again started shifting aside the grasses, hoping to find a soft ball of fluff on the ground. Instead, I found the baby cowbird who, with wings far further developed than his nestmates, led me on a merry chase through the tall meadow. When I finally caught him 20 minutes later, I cupped him carefully in my gloves and considered my options. One, I could put him temporarily in the repeating sparrow trap. That way, we'd know where he was at all times. The fact that the adult sparrows were cheeping from the tree cancelled that -- I did not want to endanger the adults as they endeavored to feed their "baby." Two, I could find him a new home in a larger nest. With that goal in mind, I approached the playground set where Sean and Bluette, our nesting bluebirds, were in the midst of feeding their brood. The baby cowbird would have enough room in their nest, but no way would he be able to squeeze out of the cavity opening when he was finally a fledgling. I nixed that idea.

I then tried, with M's help, to feed it mealworms, as the little thing kept gaping. It spat the mealworm out twice, then just kept it in its little beak, unswallowed. I finally fished it out, not wanting the baby to choke on it.

There was only one solution left: return him to his nest.

I passed the gloves and the baby cowbird to M, since he'd had success returning the nestling yesterday. Carefully, M approached the spruce and, cooing to the cowbird that it had to stay put this time, he gently placed him in the nest. The cowbird, worn out from the morning's exercise, promptly fell asleep.

I thanked M for his help and complimented him on his soft touch. He nodded wryly, noting that he was going into the veterinary field and of course he understood animals. I reminded him then that if the cowbird left again, we would just leave it to the chipping sparrows to keep track of and raise their adopted son from wherever he was hiding.

This afternoon, as I went to install a bubbler on the bird bath, I peeked at the spruce. Sure enough, the cowbird was gone again.

I walked on, fine with the knowledge that one cowbird round-up was enough for me.

The Buzz about Hummers

When we moved out here to Forest's Edge, I learned that this is prime hummingbird territory. At least the bird books claimed it to be, although friend and neighbor K informed me that she'd yet to see one despite having a feeder out. I'd always been curious about these tiny birds: the way they flitter around so quickly, their jewel-like hues, their dainty size. Back in the days where a jaunt to Florida or the Caribbean was an every-other-month business reality, I'd always taken a moment to admire the tropical birds in the area. Hummingbirds, however, remained an unseen mystery to me.

I had already put out my main feeders off the back deck -- the finch feeder, the tube feeder, a suet feeder (promptly removed until cooler weather, regardless of WBU's encouragement to keep it out year round), and a bird bath of sorts (actually my upside-down tomato grower from Gardener's Supply, which a number of birds -- including one bathing beauty of a female red-winged blackbird -- used as a splashing zone). I was toying with the idea of buying a hummingbird feeder, but three things held me back. First, the expense. A good feeder, dishwasher safe and durable, costs about $20, not including the cost of the hummingbird nectar. Second, the bugs. In my mind, there was no way that sugary water was not going to immediately draw every insect in the area... and I tend to be squeamish about insects (yuk!). Third, I had yet to see a hummingbird, so why go to all this trouble?

That was my exact thought one evening, when I was on the steps of our studio entrance, watering the hanging baskets I'd placed there, when I heard a loud buzzing sound. I froze. I happen to be allergic to bee (wasp, hornet, yellow jacket) stings, and I had too much on my plate to be incapacitated by a bee sting. The buzzing was loud one moment, then paused, then sounded again. My curiosity -- and fear -- got the better of me and, knowing that the only flowers around were those right at my feet, I hazarded a peek down. There, its beak stuck in the cup of one of the violet flowers, was a tiny hummingbird, happily licking nectar out of the blossom. I watched as the little bird pulled its beak out, flitted around the plant, decided it had had enough, and speedily buzzed past me.

The next day, I was at WBU, buying a hummingbird feeder. I'd read that hummingbirds are partial to red, the way orioles are partial to orange and bluebirds to blue. I still don't understand this, unless these birds simply feel safer near colors that they themselves wear. I chose a purple feeder, however, seeing as the hummingbird had been at a purple flower. I also purchased a box of powdered nectar, which the sales associate assured me was simple to make. It certainly was, as I learned upon opening the box and reading the ingredients: 100 percent sucrose. In other words, sugar. I felt like the biggest newbie birder. I'd just spent about $3.50 on an instant-pudding-sized box of sugar! Disgusted with myself, I made the entire batch and vowed not to fall into that trap again (one cup granulated white sugar to four cups boiling water, stir until dissolved, cool).

In an effort to enhance my chances of viewing hummingbirds, I bought a four-armed shepherd's crook and positioned it in the front garden outside the master bedroom window, just feet away from my sighting. I didn't have to wait long. As I was positioning the feeder, a male ruby-throated hummingbird showed up, hovering in place impatiently as if I'd always had a feeder there. It flitted away as I hung the feeder, then returned just as I stepped back, waiting one second before diving into one of the feeder holes. I was completely enchanted.

Soon, two other feeders joined the purple one. I'd bought them at Lowe's, and they resembled red flying saucers with yellow "bee guard" flowers around the feeding holes (the purple one had built-in purple flower ones). I hung both off the back deck, one viewable from the breakfast nook, the other from the sitting room and master bathroom. A sleepy morning later, I was rewarded as I tottered into the bathroom by the sight of two male hummers fighting over one of the feeders. Two hummingbirds! I was delighted, and quite forgot that I was there to wash up for work, throwing my morning schedule off somewhat. I eventually replaced the bathroom-window feeder with a Droll Yankee feeder because the first one always tilted to one side, causing the feeder to swing when the hummers perched on the side where all the nectar had gathered.

Three feeders simply didn't give me enough of these little birds, however, and soon I found myself traveling to a store 30 minutes away for the sole purpose of picking up hummingbird feeders that inserted into hanging plants. Eager for more sightings, I quickly set these up in the flower baskets at the front steps. Two days later, I was returning them. These were a total waste of money; their swinging action did not attract hummingbirds, but it sure drew the ants to all the nectar that spilled. Next!!

After careful consideration, and a lot of self-persuasion to overcome my skepticism, I chose a window-mounted Droll Yankee hummingbird feeder from the Backyard Bird Company. I've never had much faith in window-mounted anything. The suction cups just did not hold in place, and the mounted items -- rain gauges, thermometers, etc. -- always tumbled to the ground. I really wanted the chance to see the hummingbirds up close, however, so I took the chance and ordered it. The mounting instructions were slightly bizarre -- instead of using water to increase the suction, using the body oils that gather behind the nose -- but I followed the instructions to a T. The feeder has yet to fall and, very shortly afterward, I had not two but three hummingbirds battling for feeding rights just outside the window where my temporary office has been set up.

The newcomer was a female ruby-throated hummer, again, plainer than her male counterparts but of a more timid disposition. She'd hover at the window feeder, cautiously making sure it was safe, before approaching for a sip. Usually, she wouldn't be there long before one of the territorial males zipped over and chased her away. This became true of all four feeders, and I began to feel sorry for the poor hummer girl. After all, it was nesting season for her, and I couldn't help but wonder if the poor little bird was simply trying to fuel herself for the task of nest-building, clutching, and brooding only to be chased off. Or pursued by eager males? I didn't know. To help her out, however, I hung up a grid of fluff to use in her nest building. I've yet to see her use it.

I've yet to see a hummingbird nest at all, although I've been encouraged by the hummingbird watch group I joined to try to locate them on my property. Good luck with that. Hummer nests are the size of walnuts. Delicately collected spiderweb silk holds the nest in place, and lichen is used to cover the exterior to camouflage it. Hummingbirds are also very particular about the location of their nests. They have to have coverage -- leaves that serve as a canopy against the sun and rain -- and the nest has to be positioned on the branch of a deciduous tree, but at a specific angle on a branch that turns downward. Thanks to this description, I spent a good 30 minutes beneath our weeping mulberry, checking every downward-turned limb for a walnut-sized nest. I'm certain the hummers had a good laugh at that.

Earlier this week, I found a gadget called the Hummingbird House. This ingenious item was designed by a hummingbird enthusiast after years of observing the little birds. It mimics the branching angle of the tree limbs favored by hummers, down to the width of the branch. It has fake leaves for coverage. It even has a bit of starter nesting material. The manufacturer recommends installing it under the eaves of the roof, but I don't see how installing it that way would work, as it would be far out of view from any window. Should I decide to splurge and get it (it costs about $30), I think I'll install it in the tree right outside my office, near the window-mounted feeder. That way, the hummers will have plenty of shade and will be right near a food source. Plus I'll be able to watch the hummer girl build her nest and raise her young.

For now, however, I'm enjoying the antics of my hummingbird trio. My window-mounted feeder is visited from dawn to dusk, every 8 to 10 minutes, by one of the male hummers... or perhaps both, taking turns. The female visits every 15 to 20 minutes, as long as I keep the mini-blinds down (she refused to approach the day I had my blinds raised in the hopes of a better photo, chittering at me from above a nearby tree branch until I lowered the blinds again). One male keeps a semi-permanent perch on the deck hook that holds not the hummingbird feeder but the oriole feeder. His shiny green back is an almost continual presence. J wondered if he enjoyed the view, or perhaps the heat radiating from the black metal hook. My thoughts are that he's guarding his claimed territory -- one of the hummingbird feeders is just one hook over -- and he's conveniently located where he can swoop and chase away intruders to his realm.

He's smart enough, though, to know not to get in the way of the orioles when they show up to feed. I'd leave, too, if something six times my size and hungry came swooping in at me, no matter how loudly I could buzz!

InHOSPitable

There's a house sparrow couple busily building their nest in the first -- or what was the first, until yesterday's move of the former wren box -- bluebird nesting box in my bluebird trail. The male and female are taking turns flying in with grasses and weeds, weaving them together loosely to create a soft bed in which to lay a clutch.

This really burns me.

The battle of the house sparrows (HOSPs) has turned into a full-fledged war. Yes, they are songbirds. Yes, many casual birders welcome HOSPs to their feeders. But casual birders don't know what bluebirders and purple martin landlords know: that inside these tiny bits of brown, black, and white feathers lurk killers who have to be dealt with.

Ask any bluebird trail monitor what the number-one problem is in maintaining a trail is, and the answer invariably will be house sparrows. These were introduced to the US in the 1800s and have become one major pest of an invasive species. They are smaller than bluebirds, so can easily fit into the nesting boxes. The males are very territorial, bonding with their nesting site rather than with their mate (poor female!). Male HOSPs will literally sit on top of a nesting box they've claimed and chase any other birds away. Worse, if a bluebird is nesting in a box, well, the HOSP could care less. There are plenty of video clips on the Internet of HOSP nesting box invasions, showing the HOSP attacking the nesting bluebird mother, pecking the eggs, and breaking nestling bluebirds' spines with their sharp HOSP beaks. Sialis has an extremely lengthy list of posts from saddened and angered bluebird landlords as well as rather gruesome photos. The ultimate point is that, for bluebirds, purple martins, tree swallows, and other native cavity-dwelling birds to have any chance of success, HOSPs must be dealt with.

Euthanized. Shot. Killed.

It's not enough to trap them, then drive them miles away and release them to become someone else's problem, although N amusingly suggested an address in a nearby town where we should release HOSPs. No, those darned HOSPs would probably beat us back here. HOSPs are not federally protected birds (the Migratory Bird Act of 1918 does not apply to them, to European starlings, rock pigeons, or Canada geese), nor does any state protect them. This means their nests, their eggs, and they can be disposed off.

I tried -- and am still trying -- passive approaches to HOSP management. I monitor the bluebird trail daily, getting rid of any HOSP nesting material. This is easy to recognize: it's a pile of grass, weeds, twigs, and garbage. I've had HOSP nests with cigarette butts, carpet strands, cassette tape, human hair, and other junk. Bluebird nests are loose cups of straw and dried grass, while tree swallows make theirs of soft white feathers and purple martins -- which would not nest in a little box but in a tall colony structure -- nest in a combination of dried grass and green leaves. Daily, I yank out HOSP nesting material from at least one box.

All right, there was a brief respite last week when I had three or so days of HOSP-less monitoring. I credit this to the repeating sparrow trap that J bought for us from Uncle Blaine. Fabulous device. There's a cage with a little elevator. You put seed (or corn -- HOSPs love corn) inside, plus some on the perch, and the sparrows eagerly set foot inside the elevator in their effort to get to the greater pile of seed inside. The elevator drops, offering them only one way out: into the cage. The first week we had the sparrow trap, we caught 16 HOSPs. J dispatched them the way Uncle Blaine suggested, although if you have a raptor recovery center nearby, you should call to see if they'll take your HOSPs to feed injured raptors unable to hunt for themselves. J left the first little HOSP bodies back in the woods, hoping that our raptors -- broad-winged hawks, turkey vultures, and bald eagles -- might snack on them. I stopped checking on those bloated fly-covered bodies five days ago, and J has since buried the others.

But now it seems that the HOSPs are back in full force. I put a Van Ert in-box trap in one box, and sure enough, the male HOSP took one look inside and didn't come back. On finding a HOSP nest repeatedly in the nesting box closest to the playground -- and on viewing the male HOSP and Sean have a major staring contest yesterday -- I decided to move the Van Ert trap to that box.

The HOSP moved to the second box in instead. J counseled me to leave the nesting material inside, and we moved the trap over. When it is sprung, the entrance to the nesting box is sealed and a big orange circle shows up in the entrance, signaling a bird is trapped within. Obviously, this is not something that I can set and leave overnight, or while I'm out running errands. The last thing I want is cooked HOSP or, worse, cooked bluebird or swallow. At about 1 AM last night I reminded J that we needed to open the door to the nesting box with the trap on it, to avoid that very situation.

This morning, I saw that J had indeed left the door open... and I saw that the HOSPs had once again moved to the next box down. Darned obstinate, persistent birds.

After breakfast, I'm going to go out and toss out the birds' morning efforts and leave that box door open, then reset the trap on the second box. With all the nesting box doors open except for that of the wren's and the HOSPs' nest from yesterday, hopefully we'll be able to catch another couple of HOSPs and keep them from hurting our bluebird babies. Just in case, I'm moving the repeating trap to nearby the bluebird trail, and I'm discontinuing the ground feeder once what's in it is done. The blackbirds and grackles and mourning doves at what drops out of the other feeders, so it won't be too much of a shock for them, and it will be back in the winter for the juncos and other winter birds. But right now, we have to catch ourselves some HOSPs.

Babes in the Woods

Wednesday was a momentous day here at Forest's Edge (I've decided to name our home... given its size, I figure it deserves a name of its own, just like similar-sized properties in England have names like Thrushwood Manor or Pembersley). Anyway, my careful monitoring paid off and, on Wednesday morning, I was greeted by the sight not of five little pale-blue bluebird eggs but of scrawny pink baby bluebird chicks curled up inside their nest.

I quickly snapped photos while Sean and Bluette (I figured the bluebird female deserved a name, too, and I couldn't name her Robin after Mrs. Penn) wing waved at me and Sean took a couple of diving swipes at my head. I retreated to the accepted distance of the second bluebird box from the playset and watched as both Sean and Bluette took turns feeding the now-cheeping babies. Bluette proved she had some sense by digging into the saucer of mealworms I'd left. Sean shunned the easy food and flew off repeatedly into the forest to scrounge his babies' supper. Supposedly, male bluebirds feed female offspring more because male offspring may be competitors for mates in the future. I won't be able to tell how many chicks are male and how many are female for another week or so, though.

On Thursday, I managed to quickly snap photos of the babies gaping (beaks wide open) and was surprised to see that only four little beaks were present and accounted for. Where was baby number 5? I couldn't stay long, since Sean's diving attacks were getting close enough to make my ponytail swish.

Yesterday, there was a more subdued tone to the bluebirds. Bluette actually sat on the swing beam while I went and took the photos to mark Day 3 of chick development. Sean watched from the wild raspberry brambles. I wondered at this -- could they possibly, finally, be becoming accustomed to me? I scolded Sean for ignoring his mealworms, praised Bluette for being smart, and headed off to my back bluebird box, aka Wren Central.

I had held off on checking the box for several days to give the wrens some time to calm down from whatever had scared them... me? Sean? Something else? I knew from watching through binoculars that the wren couple had been flittering in and out of the box the past three days, and I'd high hopes that this meant the female would continue laying her clutch. Three eggs is rather rare for a wren clutch, although not totally unheard of. When I tapped on the box (to make sure no one was inside), then opened it, I knew immediately that something was wrong. The feathers that line the nesting cup behind the twig barricade were shoved up by the entrance slot of the box, and there was a stillness that hadn't been there before.

The eggs were gone.

Anxiously, I carefully moved the barricade forward to check if perhaps the eggs had fallen beneath the nesting cup. Nothing. Not a sign that there had ever been any wren eggs at all. The nest was empty. It was a failed nest.

But why? At first, I entertained the thought that perhaps the wren couple was so put off by Sean's aggressiveness -- or, unfortunately, my monitoring -- that they got their eggs and up and left for quieter nesting areas. The image of a little wren flapping with an egg in her talons just didn't cut it, though. How was she supposed to land with an egg in her talons? No way she could carry an egg in her pointy little beak, either. I was mystified. I checked the ground around the nesting box for pecked or broken eggs, a sign that another bird or a predator had snacked on the rosy little trio. No eggs, but about a dozen soft, fluffy brown feathers were scattered around the ground near the nesting box.

Something got the eggs, all right. There was no snake curled up inside the box, resting after a nice meal. No shed snakeskin nearby. My remaining guesses are that a raccoon climbed up the pole and helped himself to eggs over real easy and, when the wren female tried to defend her nest, the raccoon swatted her, causing her to lose her feathers.

Sadly, I cleaned out the little abandoned nest and scraped the nesting box clean. I feel bad for that poor little wren and her clutch but, on the flip side, I'm glad this didn't happen to the bluebirds. In part, I placed blame on the wren. After all, I have three little wren houses aound the yard, waiting for inhabitants. At least a tufted titmouse showed interest in one a couple of days ago. Then again, I knew I was inviting trouble when I placed that back box so close -- about 40 feet -- from the tree line. It was only 20 feet from where one of our wild turkeys met his end a month ago. Having reflected on this, I chose to move the entire kit and kaboodle, continuing the bluebird trail along the meadow's edge on the north side of our property. Hopefully, it'll have better luck there and, hopefully, the nesting box on the south side of our property that now has a wren male's partial nest will also have better luck.

I'm hopeful that other birds will find our property to be a nesting oasis for them. I know that we have two nesting pairs of Baltimore orioles. I have been unsuccessful in finding their nests, especially given that these are usually high towards the canopies of deciduous trees. I have left lengths of string -- cord cut from the too-long pulls on our den blinds -- for the orioles, which use string, yarn, twine, and vines to hang their nests. I've put up four nesting cups for barn swallows, the very first birds to greet us when we moved here (I think they saw us as interlopers). I'd like to get nesting shelves for the robins, and I recently discovered a site that sells hummingbird "houses" - contraptions that mimic the exact angles of the branches in which hummingbirds build their nests, complete with synthetic "leaves." When my budget allows, perhaps. I haven't had any luck locating the hummer girl's nest, although it must be nearby given the time she spends at my feeders. Kind of hard to find something the size of a walnut covered in lichen, though, which is why the hummingbird house attracts my attention. I'd love to be able to watch the hummer girl nest. It's on the outskirts of too late this year, unless she broods twice in a season (nesting for hummers in June, occasionally July).

As for our other babies -- Fuzzy, Wuzzy, Fluffy, Wuffy, Bedoof, and Larimar, our sextet of infant groundhogs -- they've gotten quiet large over the past month and are now foraging independently all over our property, although they still return to their original warren. A couple of them have shown interest in our HOSP trap, to the extent of climbing on top of it and peering down. They'll be leaving soon, from what I've learned, to establish their own warrens and raise their own families. I'm sure J will be happy to see them go, since he's positive that Waltina, the mother groundhog (she was Walter until she emerged with her troop last month) is damaging the foundation of the house. My argument is that she was here first, her warren is not right up against the house, and we moved out to the country to enjoy the wildlife. The boys will be sad to see the babies go, though. M wanted one as a pet and, last night, N and JTR were laying claims to them (Wuffy for N and Bedoof for JTR). B hasn't shown much interest since the day he wandered outside and was found by a panic-stricken M seated next to the groundhog hole, calmly waiting for the babies to emerge.

Hopefully, he'll find the bluebird babies just as interesting, although he was somewhat perturbed -- read that as screaming mad -- that he couldn't play on his playground set because of the nestlings. JTR reported that B ran out to the playset and climbed on, scaring Sean and Bluette away. J grabbed him and brought him back before Sean could start his diving attacks. I wonder if Sean would. After all, B is a babe in our woods, too.

Wren There's a Way...

Wrens were always the little birds I'd read about in novels, praised for their beautiful songs and cheery natures. I knew nothing else about them, other than that some parents name their daughters Wren (personally, I'd prefer being named Peregrine or Kestrel). The June 2009 newsletter from Wild Birds Unlimited, however, noted that June was wren-nesting month. Since WBU was correct about June also being the month groundhog babies emerged (an event that forced us to rename Walter, our resident groundhog, Waltina), I figured that this was my chance to see and hear what wrens were all about. I bought a wren house, a little diamond-shaped wooden affair with no way to open except to actually unscrew the entire thing -- not very practical for checking nesting and clutching habits. At the least, I thought, it could serve as yard art, a cute Victorian-style contraption that blended well with the landscaping of my front garden. The tree in which it hangs stands right outside the window of my temporary office. My thoughts were to be able to observe a little wren singing and raising a family just a few feet away.

The wrens had other ideas.

For about two weeks, the little white wren house just hung there, doing nothing other than adding focal interest to my yard. Concerned that perhaps the little birds weren't fond of the corrugated copper roof on the house, I bought a plain cedar wren house and hung it opposite the first one, on the other side of the tree but still well within my view.

A few days later, I heard it. Wren song is very hard to describe. It's a combination of trilling and high-pitched laughter that lasts for a long time, at least in bird terms. It's not a quick caw or coo, but an extended enunciation that repeats after a few moments. Accustomed to short bird calls, I was enchanted by this little songster and actually managed to capture him mid-song with my camera. I'd read that wrens sing from dawn to dusk, and I looked forward to having the little wren perched on his house just outside my office, warbling away all day.

The next morning, I awakened to the sound of wren song as the little bird trilled his heart out from the higher branches of my tree.

The following morning, I began to wish the wren would go perch on a different tree. The little guy just sang and sang and sang, non-stop, from about 5:30 AM on. Having stayed up late unpacking boxes, I just wanted to lay my heavy head back down and sleep a little more. The wren didn't care, however, and eventually I gave up and got an early start on my day.

That evening, one of the crazy storms that sweeps through this part of Michigan hit. These can be vicious -- an earlier storm tore our flag and flagpole holder right off the front of our house. This time, the wind shrieked through the attic rafters and caused the house to creak throughout the night. J woke up early the next day -- I never did ask him if this was due to the wren alarm clock -- and walked the property, looking for damage. The only casualty was the cedar wren house, which had been flung about 5 feet from where I'd hung it. Fortunately, it was intact, but I could only think with horror about what might have happened had there been a nesting female inside. That afternoon, I purchased an extra-strong cable with s-hook and lashed the little house to the tree.

When I checked the house the next morning to see if it held, I noticed twigs sticking out of the entrance hole. I was thrilled -- my little singer had chosen to build a nest in one of my houses! For a few days, I kept checking the Victorian wren house, hoping that perhaps he'd move to the ritzier house, but no go. Another let down came when I checked my bird-nesting book. Apparently, male wrens are prodigious builders -- they will stuff twigs into any available cavity in their territory, building "dummy nests" that may or may not be used. The choice came down to the female, whom the male wren would take on a tour of his assorted estates. The female wren would then choose one of the nests the male had built, complete it with more sticks and twigs, gum the whole works together with spiderwebs and sticky white caterpillar coccoon threads, then make a soft cup-shaped depression in the back lined with soft grasses and feathers. In this, she'd lay her eggs.

The female wren apparently did not like the cedar wren house. At least, that's what I think. I tried peering into that small circular opening with a flashlight to see if an active nest was inside, but I couldn't see past the front twigs... which I believe is the purpose of those twigs any way, a sort of protective barricade behind which the birds are free to clutch and brood. I had some hope still, since the front twigs have the gummy white threads on them, but without being able to open the box and monitor what is inside, I had no way of verifying whether the nest was active or not. And I really didn't want to undo all the lashing and unscrew the house just to check. Another bird book suggests removing dummy nests after three weeks, to allow other birds to use the cavity. I'm on week two right now, still maintaining a little hope that the nest is an active one, even though the wren no longer sings from this tree.

Another wren -- we have several now, all trilling from different parts of our property -- also shunned the wren houses I set up, choosing instead the newest bluebird nesting box N and I set up in the backyard. This box is the farthest point in our bluebird trail, and the wren must have been itching to nest because the day after we put the nesting box in, the wren had built her nest. At that point, I was so used to opening up the boxes and finding either nothing or messy house sparrow nests inside that I momentarily froze when I opened this box and found a tall pile of gummy twigs inside.

I also panicked. There was a video clip on Sialis showing a house wren tossing bluebird nestlings out of their nest so that she could occupy the space. I'd read about bluebird eggs being pecked open by long, sharp wren beaks. I did not want this little wren to wreak havoc on my skittish bluebirds. Luckily, Lynn at the Michigan Bluebird Society allayed my fears. She shared her experience with house wrens: if you keep removing their nesting materials, they become aggressive and retaliate by moving to another available cavity and making it their own. In the case of a bluebird trail, this usually meant displacing an established bluebird couple or going around pecking eggs and baby birds -- obstacles to getting a quiet cavity in which to nest. Once Lynn chose to leave the wren alone, it built its nest and minded its own business, not bothering the nearby bluebirds at all. Her wren became a good neighbor to her blues. As I pondered this, Lynn reminded me that wrens are protected birds -- once the nest was active, it could not be touched.

I took that to mean that while it was inactive, I could empty the nesting box out. I headed out to the bluebird trail, angled mirror in hand, to see if I could still salvage this box. When I opened the door, however, the change was immediately apparent: twigs were now packed in all the way to the ceiling and, when I carefully peeked beyond the barricade, I saw a nesting cup in the back. I closed the door in gracious defeat.

Since that day, I've monitored the wren's box along with my other trail boxes and excitedly reported to my family the appearance of one, then two, then three eggs. A few days ago, I felt another kind of wren-related anxiety: the number of eggs remained stuck at three. I knew from my research that a wren clutch averaged 7 eggs, one per day. What had happened? Had I checked the nest too often, scaring the wren away? Had Sean, my aggressive male bluebird, chased the wren away from a nesting box he viewed as his own? What could I do to save the abandoned eggs?

Fortunately, as I rinsed dishes yesterday afternoon, I saw two little shapes flitting around the far box. Grabbing the binoculars, I zoomed in and, with relief, saw two wrens, one going into the box, the other perching on top. Phew! I'll give them a few days to themselves before I check on their eggs again, and then I'll leave them be until it's close to hatching time, just to make sure no one has snacked on them

As for my cedar wren house, my curiosity will probably get the better of me and I'll probably take it down soon to check if it's a dummy nest or not. That'll mean scaling the tree to unlash the cable and hooks, ugh, to I'll have to wait for a warm day and, preferably, one without wind.

And, of course, I have to wait for a time when my hummingbirds aren't flitting around the tree, which seems to be their pasttime of choice. But the hummers are yet another tale...

Let's Get Started!

Tweets and direct messages about my birding-related Tweets have questioned why I don't simply blog about my backyard birds. This blog is in response to those requests, so let's get started!

A bit of background: my family recently moved to five acres in rural southeast Michigan. Having always admired and fed birds in a casual manner, I decided to become more involved with my birding hobby. In just a couple of months, our backyard has sprouted a six-box bluebird trail as well as assorted feeders -- ground, tube, sunflower, finch, oriole, hummingbird, and bluebird. I've also hung two wren nesting houses in the tree outside my temporary office (my permanent one is far down the priority list of moving in-unpacking-setting up), plus a four-armed shepherd's crook outside the master bedroom so we can watch birds from our room. A variety of seed -- thistle, songbird mix, critter mix (can't forget our family of groundhogs!), oil sunflower, fruit/nut mix, and no-mess variety -- and a couple of regional bird books and helpful tools (angled mirrow and a scraper) and I was set to kick back and enjoy my backyard birds.

How naive I was! Still am, undoubtedly, but I learn every day.

For instance, I learned how high maintenance bluebirds can be. Lovely birds, with the male so much more brighter than the female (female birds really get shorted in this regard!). Cousin to the robin, bluebirds are summer inhabitants in our area, although I've learned from the Michigan Bluebird Society (of which I've recently become a member) that some stay the winter, especially if there are boxes to roost in and an adequate food supply. No problem -- just clean out the boxes and make sure I have plenty of what bluebirds like to eat.

Bluebirds prefer mealworms. Ick. I have no problem keeping bird seed in plastic storage jugs, but keeping live worms? And not even real worms... mealworms are larvae of some sort of beetle. I ordered roasted mealworms from The Backyard Bird Company but the bluebirds -- we have six -- seemed to turn their little beaks up at these. I surrendered to their finicky diets and ordered canned preserved mealworms, which are currently in their shipping box, which arrived yesterday. Lynn at Michigan Bluebird told me that I can easily train the bluebirds by putting mealworms in a Corel-type bowl and slowly moving the bowl back daily until the birds have been trained to eat from where I want them to eat. Namely, our backyard deck, where all the other feeders are.

Of course, yesterday, my nesting male bluebird, Sean -- named so because he is very aggressive and flies at me when I try to take his photo -- was happily perched on my bluebird feeder, roasted mealworms in beak. Oh, well. Lynn also informed me that the bluebirds will be far more frequent visitors to the feeder once their eggs hatch. Which, according to my carefully monitored timeframe, should be tomorrow.

High maintenance doesn't just refer to the bluebirds' eating habits. Their nesting habits are also in need of careful monitoring. In Michigan (and in most of the eastern US, from my understanding), the Eastern bluebird has declined steadily because its natural habitat -- cavities, especially holes abandoned by woodpeckers -- have been taken up by two invasive species, the European starling and the house sparrow. Bluebird numbers have started to rise thanks to the work of birders, who put up bluebird nesting boxes or bluebird trails (a series of nesting boxes). Bluebird boxes must be ventilated, be watertight, have a small entrance hole (1.25" to 1.5"), must be mounted on poles at a height of about 5 feet off the ground, and must have a panel that opens for monitoring. Monitoring is pretty much birdie-sitting. Why monitor a wild creature? To ensure, for starters, that predators like snakes, raccoons, squirrels, and opossums don't consider the nesting box a lunch box; thus the need for pole mounts and specific heights. Baffles -- shields mounted on the poles at some distance below the nesting boxe -- also keep predators from reaching eggs and nestlings. Some bluebirders even grease the poles to keep predators away. I haven't gone that far, yet.

That takes care of the ground-based predators. There are aerial ones, too, for instance, those house sparrows. House sparrows are the little brown and white birds -- males have a black mask and "bib" -- that are seen in city parks, sidewalks, etc. You see people feeding them at zoos; you see them nesting in the spaces left between letters on storefront signs (there are a couple of sparrow nests in the K and the A of our nearest K-Mart). Sparrows are also killers who destroy bluebird eggs, break baby bluebird spines with their hard beaks, and maim and kill adult bluebirds. Why? Because the sparrows want the cavity nests... all of them. Even if they have no plans to use them. Monitoring the bluebird boxes and trails is a necessity to keep the invasive sparrows from harming and destroying the native bluebirds.

I at first found this hard to believe. Just to be safe, I made sure that my nesting boxes were slot boxes developed by the University of Kentucky to discourage sparrows, who prefer circular openings to slots, which bluebirds don't mind. Despite this, I started finding sparrow nesting materials in a couple of my boxes. The passive method of house sparrow, or HOSP, control, is to remove the nesting material as quickly as it is put in. Supposedly, the male HOSP, who is the main builder and actually bonds with the box more than with his mate, will give up and find another place to nest. It turns out I had two very persistent male HOSPs. They'd sit on the bluebird boxes, taunting me with their presence. I grew more anxious about their presence once I read about HOSP encounters on Sialis. When, two days after I'd last monitored my bluebird trail, I discovered a fully built HOSP nest with an egg in it, I knew more active measures had to be taken. My husband, J, my 12-year-old son, N, and my 6-year-old son, JTR, had all caught the birding bug upon moving out here and seeing the variety of beautiful birds. They all wanted a hand in protecting our bluebirds. N became an expert egg addler -- shaking HOSP eggs to disrupt the growth of an embryo within -- while JTR would simply yell at a HOSP whenever it came to one of our feeders (this, of course, also scared the other birds away). I showed JTR how to recognize HOSP nests: a messy, tall mixture of weeds, grass, and garbage (the HOSP nest with the eventual five eggs contained cigarette butts, carpet strands, and cassette tape). JTR learned how to tap on a nesting box, then open it to check for nests to remove.

J, in the meantime, bought himself a pellet rifle with the goal of "euthanizing" the HOSPs. According to the federal Migratory Bird Act, there are four birds that can be eliminated without breaking the law: HOSPs are one of those four (the others being the European starling, the Canada goose, and the rock, or common, pigeon). The Michigan Bluebird Society recommended in-box (to trap HOSPs inside) or outside traps (baited with seed, these keep sparrows trapped in cages). J just wanted the sparrows gone. However, that HOSP nest went from one to five eggs in the time J took to zero his pellet rifle in on the nesting box, and I was growing anxious with fear that the HOSPs would do something to the bluebirds. I suppose it didn't help matters when I took the rifle and with my first shot hit the target J had set up for zeroing.

That night, as I worked on my laptop, J came in from outside and told me to follow him. He'd snuck up on the HOSP-occupied nest box and had captured the female HOSP by tossing a bag over the box. I headed for the house to check on ways to handle captured HOSPs but, by the time I returned, J had taken matters into his own hand, literally, by using the butt of his flashlight. That night, the tally count on our kitchen white board read J: 1, HOSP: 4. The next day, J ordered the repeating sparrow trap. That evening, nine sparrows were trapped, and J dispatched them according to the instructions that accompanied the trap. We would have preferred to donate the sparrows to our local raptor recovery center, to feed injured and healing hawks and eagles, but the center did not return my calls, so J left them back near the woods for our coyotes and turkey vultures.

I disposed of the HOSP nest and eggs, and the box has been vacant since, other than being happily used by our bluebirds as a perch. To date, the whiteboard tally reads J: 16, HOSP: 5 (one got away when I was trying to free a female cowbird who followed the HOSPs into the trap). That is the only drawback of the repeating trap: sometimes native birds get in, and I have to release them. This is accomplished by putting on a thick glove (to protect my skin from avian illnesses as well as from avian beak bites), reaching in through a special trap door, and grabbing the native bird as it and the others flutter around in panic. It's not easy. Yesterday, a female red-winged blackbird got in and she left missing a number of tail feathers. I also have repeat visitors, specifically, one female cowbird (recognized by her facial markings). You'd think that after two times in the trap, she'd learn.

So, on top of monitoring the bluebird trail, I also have to watch the repeating trap, keep it baited, and free natives (the Migratory Bird Act makes it illegal to keep native bird feathers, nests, eggs, you name it). In the meantime, despite my attempts to offer the bluebirds a number of carefully chosen nesting boxes -- and there are many, some with predator guards on the openings, some with blowfly screens to protect nestlings from parasites -- the brooding bluebird couple finally selected as their nesting site the playground set that we bought our two youngest sons in May for their birthday gift.

It's the world's most expensive bluebird house.

I contacted Lynn at Michigan Bluebird to ask what to do about this. My boys love their playground, with its swings, slide, trapeze, fort, and telescope. The bluebirds had been perching on top of the swing beam, and would fly off when the boys would go out to play. Then I noticed that one of the birds kept flying into the fort roof's window, which leads to nowhere but an enclosed area built into the rooftop. In other words, a cavity. Sure enough, there was a nest. Lynn suggested letting the kids continue to play so that the bluebirds would be discouraged and use one of the trail boxes, reminding me that once the nest is active -- with eggs -- it is federally protected.

The next day, I saw two spots of pale blue in the nest. I had to make sure, of course, but every time I drew near, the bluebirds would go into this crazy wing-flapping dance, circling and swooping. The little framed panes didn't help, since neither my hand nor my camera fit. I finally had to unscrew all but the top screw, which I left as a pivot. I could then insert my camera or my angled mirror to see what was going on.

It will be two weeks ago tomorrow that I counted five blue eggs.

The bluebirds are slowly getting used to us. I check on them every two days, and they don't flap anymore but rather sit on one of the nearby nesting boxes patiently until I'm done. I've gotten pretty speedy: up the slide (the only way to access the window), check, and down in about 10 to 15 seconds. Once the nestlings have fledged, we're cleaning the area out thoroughly and putting in a plexiglass cover to keep the birds from nesting there again.

The kids are excited about the bluebird babies and are keeping count of brooding days -- they should hatch in the next day or so. I bet they're also eager to get their playground set back, too. My 16 year old has point-blank told J that J cannot possibly think of having a bonfire in our fire pit (which is about 50 feet from the playset) until after the birds have fledged, and poor J, who was so proud of his new fire ring, acquiesced. I worry that the babies are going to toddle around and fall out the window. I've become well acquainted with our county's Bird Center, just in case.

Later today I'll be setting up two of the last three boxes in my bluebird trail (for a total of 9... for now) and I suppose I'll try to set out the canned mealworms (bleccch). I bought a bird bath at 25 percent off from our local nursery yesterday. Supposedly, bluebirds love birdbaths. And that means birdbaths. They turned up their little bird beaks at the tub of water I set out for them. We'll see how that goes.

I also will need to be careful with the box furthest from our house and closest to the forest. That box has an active nest in it, too, with three eggs in it. But it's not a bluebird in that box -- it's a house wren. And that's another story!