Archive for Quizzes
Every single thing I know about hummingbird identification — and a measurable share of what I know about hummingbirds, period — I owe to Steve Howell’s photographic guide. A feeder, a scope or pair of binoculars, and that book open on the table in front of you for a couple of hours, and suddenly things once inscrutable begin to make sense. Frustration cedes to challenge and, yes, even to fun.
Click on the photo to see the entire wing.
One of the neatest tricks in the book is the identification of birds in the genus Archilochus using the relative widths of the primaries. On most hummingbirds, the primaries are of more or less even breadth (except, obviously, where the outermost is modified to produce sound, as in Selasphorus). In Archilochus, though, the outer four — numbered by convention 10 through 7 — are significantly and visibly wider than the inner six (6 through 1), as even my smudgy photo of a ruby-throated hummingbird reveals. In the field or at the feeder, the result is a row of “mini-feathers” along the top of the folded primaries, ending at the square secondary panel.
I remember it this way: the name “Archilochus” starts off slow and easy, ar-KIL, and then rushes to its end, ukus, just as the primaries begin nice and broad before suddenly, hastily shrinking. (Well, it works for me!)
As to distinguishing between the two species of Archilochus, I’ll admit that I don’t always find it as easy as other people apparently do. Me, I see plenty of female-plumaged individuals whose outermost primary (10) strikes my eye as neither especially broad and blobby-tipped (as in the black-chinned) nor particularly narrow and sharp-ended (as in the ruby-throated). To be honest and lazy, I don’t worry about it that much this time of year in my New Jersey backyard.
Interestingly, the earliest descriptions of the hummingbirds in this genus make no mention of the distinctive wing structure. Catesby writes only that the wing of the ruby-throated is “of a singular Shape, not unlike the Blade of a Turkish Cymiter.” MacGillivray’s dissections added nothing. Bourcier and Mulsant, naming the black-chinned hummingbird in 1846, offer no detail beyond calling the bird’s wing “falciform.” And Reichenbach, when he created the oddly named genus eight years later, provided no diagnosis at all.
To my knowledge, the first account of the unique wing structure of Archilochus did not appear until 1874, when one of the authors of the History –whether it was Baird or Brewer or Ridgway — wrote that the
inner six primaries [are] abruptly and considerably smaller than the outer four,
a comment illustrated with a sketch by the youngest author.
Daniel Giraud Elliot, in his Classification and Synopsis five years later, provided an even better drawing — though this text leaves the primary widths unmentioned. The same sketch appeared in the second and subsequent editions of Coues’s Key, with the explanation that the
inner six [primaries are] abruptly smaller and more linear.
For the rest of the nineteenth century and into the early twentieth, this character would be stressed again and again as diagnostic for Archilochus, finding its clearest statement in Ridgway:
six innermost (proximal) primaries abruptly, and in adult males conspicuously, smaller than the rest.
This was not, however, one of the in-hand characters that passed from the museum into the field in the 1920s and 1930s. No doubt deemed too fine, too subtle, and just too downright small for the optics of the day, the wing structures of hummingbirds went unmentioned in the popular guides — and I have the impression, too, from some quick sniffing around in the more technical manuals, that primary shapes were gradually neglected even there.
One of the great projects of the past 30 years — starting with “the new approach” and continuing with such fine books as Howell’s photograph guide — has been to return to the drawers and the handbooks in search of neglected, forgotten, and misunderstood information that we can use in the field. The wing shape of Archilochus hummingbirds is just one of the best-known examples — why not go out and come up with more?
Nearly everyone got this quiz right, though to my surprise almost no one used the right words in talking about the inner primaries, which more than one respondent called “secondaries.”
A few respondents went on to identify the bird to species — and a majority decided (incorrectly) that this was a black-chinned. I repeat: Not as easy as often claimed!
Some of us were talking about hummingbird wing structures the other day — which may be why some of us don’t get invited to many cocktail parties.
In any event, take a look at this. What genus does this bird belong to?
Photographed north of Mexico.
(Click the image for the full picture.)
Two hummingbirds, photographed north of Mexico. What are they?
With hummingbirds as with all birds, start, when you can, at the rear, with the length and shape of the tail and the wingtip. The lefthand bird — the one with its head pattern so conveniently blotted out — shows a long tail that extends beyond the wingtip, which is itself long and noticeably pointed. The bunched secondaries are more or less uniformly wide.
All of that rules out many possibilities. If we look closely at the pattern of that long tail, we see a definite rufous edge to the outermost rectrix; the upper tail coverts and rump are the same emerald green as the back. Put it together, and we can identify this bird easily as a broad-tailed hummingbird.
The second bird, most of it invisible behind its saccharine lunch, seems to be larger, an impression created mostly, I think, by its relatively upright posture: the bigger the hummingbird, the more vertical its perch on a feeder. The dirty white underparts with coarse, dingy gray-green spangles should lead us to the correct identification: this one’s an Anna’s hummingbird.
Fun stuff. And a timely reminder to those of us in the east to start checking feeders for “other” hummingbirds, even as ruby-throated numbers remain high for the next month.
Two birds, both photographed north of Mexico.
What are they?
We asked the other day what the quickest set of connections was between the Allen’s hummingbird and the imperial court of Napoleon’s France. Twitter and Facebook produced a few plausible responses, but nothing can match Shannon’s response in the comments on this b-log:
I’m guessing one of the degrees is Napoleon’s ornithologist nephew, Charles Bonaparte (son of Napoleon’s brother Lucien), who lived in Bordentown, New Jersey in the 1820s at his father-in-law’s (Napoleon’s brother Joseph’s) estate called Point Breeze. As Allen’s hummingbird is a west coast bird, and Charles never ventured that far west, the second degree is probably Adolphe Mailliard, son of Joseph Bonaparte’s long-time secretary Louis Mailliard. Adolphe moved to California and died there in 1890. He (or his descendants) perhaps knew Allen?
Yep, that’s exactly the chain I had in mind.
Adolphe Mailliard‘s sons, John and Joseph, both born in Bordentown, met Charles A. Allen in California in 1874; in the early 1880s, the Mailliards gave Allen a house on their Rancho San Geronimo, where he was still living as late as 1927. Robert T. Orr’s obituary of John Mailliard credits the collector and taxidermist with having in large part inspired the brothers’ natural historical interests.
In 1877, Henry Henshaw named what he thought was a new hummingbird for Allen,
but for whose efforts in obtaining the specimens necessary for comparison, and careful field-notes, the species might have remained for a long time still unrecognized.
So there it is: the hummingbird – Allen – the Mailliard brothers – their father and grandfather – Joseph Bonaparte – and the First Empire.
Well done, Shannon!
“What he t h o u g h t was a new hummingbird”? For a quick entrée into the muddle that is the history of the Allen’s hummingbird, have a look here.