Chaw-Chaw Chow

The Red-bellied Woodpecker is quiet, even reclusive, for much of the year, but the warm days of early spring can be filled with their loud churring rattles.

Red-bellied Woodpecker

Inevitably, those vocalizations have given the bird its folk names, among them one recorded by Audubon in Florida:

from its well-known notes, the officers and men of the United States’ schooner, the Spark, as well as my assistants, always spoke of it by the name of chaw-chaw.

The residents of the banks of the St. John’s River had another motivation, too:

perhaps it partly obtained this name from the numbers cooked by the crew in the same manner as the dish known to sailors by the same name. 

We can assume that Audubon, too, partook, though he hints that this wasn’t his favorite meal:

It feeds on all sorts of insects and larvae which it can procure, and at certain periods its flesh is strongly impregnated with the odour of its food.

I think I’d pass on the chaw-chaw, too.

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The Downy Woodpecker

No one can fail to be charmed by our smallest woodpecker, the neat little Downy.

Downy Woodpecker

As Alexander Wilson put it 206 years ago,

the principal characteristics of this little bird are diligence, familiarity, perseverance, and a strength and energy in the head and muscles of the neck, which are truly astonishing.

Agreed.

 

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Supply. Demand. Extinction.

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It was one of the polite fictions of the waning days of American oology that specimens were never sold but “exchanged,” traded by collectors who were guided not by anything as crass as prices but rather by “exchange values,” regularly updated in the oological journals and other trade publications.

Thus, for example, in 1914, Charles Reed ranked the eggshells of the Ruddy Duck and those of the White-tipped Dove of equivalent value and desirability, assigning an exchange price of 35 cents to each; one laid by an American Crow or an American Goldfinch was worth a cool nickel, and an even hundred of those common specimens could theoretically be traded for the five-dollar egg of an Olive Warbler or a White-winged Crossbill.

The really extravagant price tags — I mean “exchange values,” of course — dangled from boxes containing the eggs of globally rare or extinct species. The eager collector needed to have a ten-dollar bill in his pocket if he thirsted after the egg of a Snail Kite or a Carolina Parakeet or an Ivory-billed Woodpecker, and only the truly wealthy could afford to add the California Condor to their cabinets at a hundred dollars a pop.

The egg of the Passenger Pigeon, the last female of which died the same year in which Reed published his list, was far more attainable. At two dollars, such an egg wasn’t exactly cheap, but it was no more expensive than those of such common, if inconveniently accessible, species as the Glaucous-winged Gull and Orange-crowned Warbler. A lot of pigeon eggs must have been collected back in the days of their abundance, when, as Schorger reports, a single tree could support up to three hundred nests.   

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Just a few years later, it was obvious that the pigeons weren’t coming back. The American Oologists’ Exchange Price List of 1922 set the value of a single Passenger Pigeon egg at $100, twice that of the Heath Hen and five times that of the Dusky Seaside Sparrow. Scarcity drives even the most arcane of markets.

I have no doubt that there are still good numbers of pigeon eggs resting on cotton in long-forgotten drawers, and I suspect that the price wouldn’t be that terribly high if you wanted one. Me, though, I’d be content with this as the easiest way to remember that not much more than a century ago, the life force still ran through a bird we’ll never seen again:

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How to Find Things Out

I love reading what other people think about birds and words and bird words. I love it even more, though, when they’ve taken the time to do a little homework.

Hairy Woodpecker

The presence in our backyard over the past couple of days of a female Hairy Woodpecker got me to thinking about it again. Most of us probably already know where the name — and its counterpart in scientifiquese, villosus — come from, but how would you find out if you didn’t?

Google won’t work here. I repeat: google won’t work here. Yes, the correct answer does happen to be out there in the first two pages of links it turns up, but how do you sort the wheat from the dross and the gold from the chaff?

Ad fontes, friends.

Confronted with a question like this, always go to the original description of the bird, which can be found (except in the case of the very most recently discovered species, of course) by consulting the index to Peters.

Bookmark it.

The index sends us to Volume VI. Widespread and common in eastern North America, the Hairy Woodpecker would have been among the first birds encountered by European immigrants, so it’s no real surprise to find that the original description was Linnaeus’s, in the Twelfth Edition of the Systemapublished in 1766.

Bookmark it.

The Archiater, of course, never saw this most charming of woodpeckers in life, and his description is based on the published accounts of several others, including his Fenno-Swedish disciple Pehr Kalm, the English naturalist Mark Catesby, and the great French ornithologist Mathurin Brisson. Happily, Linnaeus was as good a bibliographer as he was a scientist, so we have clear citations to each of those works.

Bookmark them all.

Kalm, we find, encountered this bird at Raccoon, New Jersey, where he found it an abundant pest in orchards, excavating its nest holes in the apple trees.

Brisson never saw the bird in life, but described it at length from specimens sent from Canada to Réaumur by the French trader and explorer Pierre Gaultier de Varennes et de la Vérendrye.

Both Brisson and Kalm (and, following those sources, Linnaeus) credit Catesby with first adducing the name “Hairy Wood-Pecker,” so we turn to his, the first comprehensive work on the natural history of the English colonies and the description he gives there of the “Picus medius quasi villosus.”

 The Back is black, with a broad white stripe of hairy feathers, extending down the middle to the Rump.

It’s not the tibia, it’s not the nasal tuft, it’s not the male’s nuchal patch. It’s the bird’s back that gives this species its English and its scientific names.

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Next time the question comes up — in a “trivia quiz” or in the car on the way home from a birding trip — you’ll know the answer. More importantly, you’ll know how to figure out the next nomenclatural puzzle somebody poses: no more guessing.

 

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Yard Bird!

Coming into our third spring in this house now, we’re still ticking off the occasional “yard bird” — birderspeak for a species detected for the first time in or from or over our little suburban postage stamp of a lot.

It’s always fun to see something new, but we’ve lived in so many places over so many years that our cumulative yard list, as opposed to our current yard list, is distressingly close to hitting a brick wall. That made doubly exciting this afternoon’s visitor, a bird I can’t recall ever having seen before from the comfort of my own window.

Red-shouldered Hawk

This adult Red-shouldered Hawk flew in to perch behind our back fence early this dim, rainy evening. Almost certainly a migrant (and almost certainly about to face a tough day or two as the temperatures fall and the ground freezes again), it surveyed the surroundings, a bit disdainfully, I thought, and then flashed off through the woods. I’d gladly offer it a Slate-colored Junco or a Red Fox Sparrow or two if it would like to stay around.

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