Aut prodesse aut delectare?

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This coming year of 2017 marks the 250th anniversary of the start of one of the most ambitious publishing projects ever undertaken in eighteenth-century Italy, the Ornithologia methodice digesta of Salverio Manetti.

As in many contemporary works, the text of the lavishly illustrated volumes is bilingual, the inner of the two columns on each page in Italian, the outer in Latin, such that on each opening the vernacular is flanked by the eternal language of western scholarship.


The two texts are very nearly the same — but not quite identical. Manetti appears to have been aware that his two audiences, the vernacular and the erudite, brought different expectations to the text, an awareness made almost explicit in one of the few variant readings introduced by the translator.


In his introductory note, the author alerts Latin readers to his having provided in each volume but the last

a text that will teach the reader more and more about this field of knowledge.

The translation adds something: all of the volumes but the index contain

an instructive and entertaining text,

“un instruttivo e dilettevol discorso.”

Manetti and his publishers were covering their commercial bases.



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A Rare Sparrow in Chicago

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Ninety-five years ago today, a promising young birder notice several “different” birds in a flock of White-throated Sparrows in Jackson Park on Chicago’s lakefront. Closer inspection revealed that at least two of the outlanders were Harris’s Sparrows, a species considered rare then, and still scarce today, anywhere in Illinois.

Harris's sparrow, Arizona

Harris’s sparrow, Arizona

A nice find indeed for the seventeen-year-old birder. But he is better known nowadays for his connection to the Kirtland’s warbler, the Wilson’s phalarope, and one of the most notoriously vicious crimes in American history.

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In July 1896, the wealthy California collector A.W. Anthony and his party set out from San Diego for a tour of the west Mexican islands.

AW Anthony

One of Anthony’s companions, Horace Amidon Gaylord, D.D.S., reported that their schooner “anchored at the Mecca of the expedition, Guadalupe Island,” on September 17. Anthony immediately proceeded to the very top of the island and set up camp, hoping to descry one of the three or four Guadalupe caracaras that the local goat hunters assured him still survived.

Don Eckelberry

Don Eckelberry

He had no luck. But on September 20, a group of hunters hailed Gaylord to tell him that a “Quelili,” apparently an echoic name for the bird, had landed in a cypress near their cabin.

A shot while the bird was still in the tree, and another, as, wounded, it circled within range, secured the only Guadalupe caracara of the expedition.

The Gaylord caracara, now in the Carnegie Museum, was not the last to be collected. The estimate of only three or four survivors in 1896 was, it turns out, low.

In 1898, a hunter by the name of Harry Drent returned from Guadalupe Island with a load of goat meat — and four living Guadalupe caracaras. Drent captured the birds by shooting and winging the first, then using it as a decoy to lure in three others, which he lassoed with a short rope. He later told a San Diego paper that

I have been offered $100 for the four, but I will not sell them. I have written the Smithsonian Institute, and am confident that I shall secure a high figure.

While awaiting his windfall from Washington, Drent exhibited the birds in the back room of “a saloon on Fifth Street near G” in San Diego, where they “attracted lots of attention” but were eventually evicted by the saloon owner “on account of their dirty habits.”

After taking his birds to California, Drent claimed that only three caracaras remained on Guadalupe. In fact, the species persisted, as the famed Rollo H. Beck discovered in 1900. Thirty years later, he wrote that

Although I had no idea of it at the time it seems probably to me that I secured the last of the Guadalupe caracaras on Guadalupe Island on the afternoon of December 1, 1900. Of 11 birds that flew toward me 9 were secured. The other two were shot at but got away. The 11 birds were all that were seen….

And all that would ever be seen again.

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Fresno Mountain High

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Eighty-five years ago today, on September 16, 1931, the Dillwoods observed for the last time a long-staying snowy egret in the forests along Deer Creek, at an elevation of 7,060 feet in Fresno County, California.

Invoking the “life zone” principle linking altitude and latitude, Roland Case Ross noted that this unusual occurrence was equivalent to the bird’s

wandering into Nova Scotia and British Columbia, which places the Snowy Egret in Canadian Life Zone faunas a thousand miles northward.

Ross doesn’t come out and say it, but he had his suspicions about the cause of the bird’s abrupt vanishing:

It is significant to note the disappearance of the bird on the day “deer hunting” began.

Eloquent quotation marks if ever there were.

Snowy Egret

A snowy egret at a more expected location and elevation.

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Franklin’s Pipixcan

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It seems that the Terror has been found in the icy waters off King William Island, and poor John Franklin is in the news yet again.

This time, the discovery coincides with the peak southward movement of one of the birds named for Franklin, the graceful, squeaky-voiced gull still widely known in my youth as the prairie pigeon.


John Richardson named the species for Franklin in February 1832. In his detailed description, he directs the reader to the account of the same bird in Joseph Sabine’s “Zoological Appendix,” published two years earlier, in which Sabine unfortunately treated the bird Franklin had sent home to England as identical to Alexander Wilson’s (and Linnaeus’s) laughing gull — with the notable exception that Wilson’s “figure represents the primaries as entirely black.”

Richardson, of course, was right to distinguish the two, but he was wrong, alas, to believe that he was the first to describe the species as new. Less than a year earlier, in May 1831, Johann Georg Wagler had unpacked a box of specimens sent from Mexico by the Bavarian collector Keerl, and in it recognized a gull first described in the late sixteenth century by Francisco Hernandez de Toledo, who wrote from Mexico that

 this bird of the genus of gulls or diving birds is not at all unlike the gray species depicted by a recent author, in both size and color; but it has both crown and bill black, the latter rather curved and reddish at the very tip. The legs are black tending to deep red, the tail gray above, and the outer portions of the wing are in part white and in part black, with small bright white spots at intervals. It dwells around lakes and rivers, and eats small fish and insects. It is not a resident bird here and does not raise its young in Mexican waters. It is edible, but not well suited as food. It is aquatic and noisy, and gnaws on bones and eats whatever it encounters.

Wagler’s unflattering scientific epithet for the bird comes from Hernandez, who recorded that the Aztecs called it “pipixcan,” or “the thieving bird.”

It took close to a hundred years for Wagler’s priority to be recognized by English-speaking ornithology, and by the time pipixcan was officially restored as the gull’s scientific name, the vernacular name commemorating Franklin had been long and firmly established.

For observers lucky enough to be watching the great flocks move south these coming weeks, the name Franklin’s gull is a reminder of an explorer whose final fate is still imperfectly known — but whose spirit floats over every autumn on its way from one hemisphere to the next.

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