Archive for Famous Birders
The famous Strasbourg naturalist and collector Jean Hermann was also a dedicated bibliophile. His personal library — eventually the foundation of the library of the Strasbourg Museum of Natural History and now in large part held in the university library of the city — was notable for its completeness and for the care with which he annotated the books, many of them in great and obsessive detail.
Hermann’s copy of the Pomeranian ornithologist Jacob Theodor Klein’s Prodromus is disappointingly clean. A Latin note on the flyleaf, though, reveals his bibliographic sophistication:
the images are missing in the German edition of Reyger, though that is the more authoritative text of the two, so much so that it is worth acquiring both editions.
Among those engravings are some of the most uncanny images in the history of ornithological illustration. This one in particular, depicting the early steps in the dissection of a Bohemian waxwing, strikes me as the inspiration for a fine costume for Halloween.
Burns didn’t shoot it. He didn’t net it or trap it. He didn’t even pick it up from under a plate glass window.
A large black and white cat was seen along the fence of a pasture field, with something in her mouth…. It proved to be an [adult Henslow’s sparrow] in excellent plumage, with the exception of the primaries and secondaries, which were scarcely three-fourths grown. This, together with its extreme fatness, rendered it an easy victim to tabby.
We know that Burns skinned the bird. The fate of the cat is less certain.
One hundred fifty years ago today, Adolphus L. Heermann was killed, “having evidently stumbled and fallen,” when his collecting gun fired.
John Cassin, who knew him well, said of Heermann in earlier, healthier days that no better man could be had for a collecting expedition. In 1853, Cassin dedicated a “beautiful gull” to his friend, an
acknowledgment due to his accomplishment as a naturalist, and his perseverance and success as a scientific traveller.
In Washington, D.C., Spencer Baird was equally impressed by Heermann and his work in the field. On working through a collection of sparrows from the west, Baird encountered one that Heermann had sent from Tejon Pass, California, resembling a song sparrow but
differing very appreciably from a large number of specimens from Washington and Oregon…. I have come to the conclusion that the species is worthy of specific separation, and have accordingly named it Melospiza heermanni, after its accomplished collector and discoverer.
Today we “know” that that California bird is “just” a subspecies of the song sparrow. But there’s no reason not to call it the Heermann’s song sparrow, especially today.
If you’re not already crazy, thinking hard about Passerculus sparrows will drive you there fast.
The only consolation: greater spirits than ours have been confused by these streaky devils.
I assume it was the explanation point that rankled. In any event, not long thereafter, Elliott Coues corrected his corrector, adding beneath Ridgway’s notation the words “Scarcely! stet sanctorum–C.”
I don’t know whether the two actually ever sat down to talk about those skins. But each had made his point, loud and clear.
One of my favorite lines in the history of American ornithology comes from J.P. Giraud‘s description of one of my favorite birds, the Henslow’s sparrow.
Shotgun birders like Giraud found this species no less maddeningly elusive than today’s observers. Happily, though, writes Giraud,
from the eagerness with which it is pursued by dogs, we may infer that it possesses considerable game effluvia.
As late as the 1970s, it seems, hunters in Louisiana were complaining that their dogs were pointing these grassland “stinkbirds” instead of quail.
Gellert, you have a mission.