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YELLOW–BILLED
MAGPIES MY two unsuccessful
jaunts at Paso Robles in search of yellow-billed magpies only put a keener edge
upon my appetite. By this time, indeed, to use an expressive colloquialism,
common when I was younger, I had magpies on the brain. If such birds were to be
seen, at any reasonable price, I wished to see them. I had heard, before
leaving Massachusetts, that this might possibly be accomplished in the vicinity
of Monterey; but a famous California ornithologist, to whom I am indebted for
many favors, had done his best to make an end of all such expectations. There were no magpies about Monterey, he said,
in a tone of positiveness. He had been there, and he knew. Happily, however,
there is always the possibility of error in assertions of this kind, no matter
who makes them, and I still cherished an unspoken hope that my original
information, which likewise had seemed to come from excellent authority, might
turn out to be correct. It is no very serious offense, no sacrilege, surely, to
question even a scientific man’s knowledge, so long as it is of a negative
sort, and so long, especially, as he is not admitted into the secret of our
skepticism. When I had been at
Pacific Grove — on the Monterey peninsula — about a week, I walked a few miles
over the hill for a look down into Carmel Valley, of the beauty and birdiness
of which I had received alluring reports; and on my way back, after a forenoon
of exceeding pleasure, a young man driving into Monterey with a load of apples
(Carmel apples are in high repute hereabout, it appears, though my difficult
Yankee mouth was always hankering for a tart New England russet), offered me a
lift. Half reluctantly I accepted the invitation, and it was well I did. We fell into talk,
of course, and presently it became known, some things being difficult of
concealment, that I was in search of birds, and wanted of all things to see a
few yellow-billed magpies. “Magpies?” the young man responded, looking up with
something of surprise in his face. Yes, I said; I had heard that there were
some on a certain ranch somewhere out this way, So-and-So’s ranch. Did he know
where it was? Oh, yes, he knew
the place. But it was a hard one to get at, especially just now, since the
recent heavy rains had swollen the river. But why didn’t I go down to
such-and-such a creek, he asked. For that I shouldn’t have to cross the river;
and there were magpies there, he was sure. He had often seen them. “Black and
white,” he added, “with yellow bills; very noisy.” “Good for you!” I
thought. “You’re the very man I’ve been looking for.” Indeed, I not only
thought so, but said so; and he proceeded to give me as definite instructions
as might be concerning the road, though they sounded none too clear, I must
confess. I was to drive
about twenty miles from Monterey, keeping to such-and-such a course, till I
came to a certain man’s ranch. There, or near there, I should find a creek. At
the creek, the name of which I do not print because — for one reason — I have
found nobody who can tell me how to spell it, I was to take to my legs, turning
to the left and following the cañon. There I should find the magpies. I
couldn’t miss them. At least, my informant had never been there without seeing
some. Several days
passed. I made inquiries at a livery-stable, but received no great
encouragement. The place was a long way off, much farther than my young man had
put it. (Livery-keepers’ miles are apt to be many.) They would send me out, if
I said so; but it would be a hard day’s trip, and they appeared to have no
driver who knew anything in particular about the route. Meanwhile, I was having
royal luck with a set of migratory shore-birds, and even the yellow-billed
magpies must wait. They would
wait, while migrants, like Folly, must be taken as they fly. Then came a lull,
and at another stable I found the very driver I was seeking. He knew nothing
about magpies, he confessed, but he knew the road, and by half past seven the
next morning, it was agreed, we would be on the way. The weather was
most propitious; the sky cloudless, with exactly enough of a light breeze
blowing; and when we had mounted the long hill, through the Monterey pines, and
come out upon a grassy slope sprinkled with strangely picturesque, wind-swept,
one-sided evergreen oaks, not far from the Carmel Mission and the mouth of the
Carmel River, the valley lay before us, a scene of enchanting beauty. The driver proved
to be conversable (a good listener, too, which is half the battle); the horses
promised to be equal to all we should ask of them; birds were numerous; flocks
of white seagulls dotted the brown, cultivated lands, where they follow the
plough like so many blackbirds; the fields and roadsides were bright with
sun-cups (a kind of dwarf evening primrose), saucy-faced, long-stemmed yellow
violets, and other blossoms; and it was impossible not to feel that this time
my hunt was fated to prosper. Once in five miles, or some such matter, we passed a house (the driver knew every one by its owner’s name); two or three times a roadrunner was seen skulking amid the chaparral, his long, expressive tail rising and falling; and by and by we came to clumps of trees that pleased me as much, perhaps, as any of the lesser things that I have seen in California: California buckeyes; not yet in bloom, but covered with such a canopy of new leaves, and so matchless in shape — low, round-topped, widespreading, a perfect dome of greenery — well, there is no saying how I appreciated their loveliness. If they are not cultivated, as I have never heard that they are, it must be, I should think, because gardeners do not quite know their business. About the same time, perhaps before it, we passed my first fuchsia-flowered gooseberry-bushes, their downward-curving branches hung so thickly with long, odd-shaped scarlet blooms that I felt at first as if I were looking at good Yankee-land barberry-bushes loaded with dead-ripe fruit. We had been on the
road about four hours when we met a man, a German, it seemed, in an open wagon.
“We’ll ask him about it,” said
the driver; and he pulled up the horses. Such a creek? Yes,
the German knew it. It was about four miles ahead. Was there water in it? Well,
there might be — a little. How
should we know when we got to it? There was a gate close by. Then I explained, in a word, what I was after, a certain kind of bird, a magpie. Oh, yes, the stranger answered, with no sign of surprise, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a man to drive fifty miles, without a gun, to look at magpies! — Oh, yes, I should find them. “Go in at the gate,” he said. And then he added, “You may have to go up as far as the house; but you’ll find ‘em.” Heaven bless the man, say I, who has the wit and the will to deal in particulars when information is wanted. My spirits ran
high. The game was as good as won. And shortly, before I had noticed anything
of the kind myself, while I supposed, indeed, that we had still a mile or two
to travel, the driver said, “This must be the creek.” Sure enough there was a
dribble of water, at which, with patience, a man might fill a quart cup. Yes,
and there was the gate. “All right,” said I, as my feet struck the ground;
“I’ll find you here when I come back.” I proceeded
cautiously up the path beside the brook. Birds of various sorts were in the
bushes, but I would not stay to notice them. A strange warbler, even, could not
detain me. Perhaps it would be there when I returned. If not, no matter. It was
probably a lutescent warbler, I knew afterward, when I could spare my wits to
consider the matter. For the minute I could think of only one thing; there was
only one thing that I wanted to see, a black-and-white bird with a long tail
and a yellow bill. Up the ravine I
went, and still no sign. Hope was growing less, my spirits less exuberant. Then
I came within sight of a distant shanty in a clearing, and recalled our German
friend’s caution. Even yet there was a chance. Across the wide grassy field I
hastened, and up to the house, which turned out to be inhabited, a thing I
should have deemed impossible. Nobody was in sight, but I could hear a Mexican
or Spanish woman crooning to her baby as she rocked it to sleep. I took my station
near the corner of the house, in the shade of a cypress tree, and waited.
Minutes passed, — five minutes, ten minutes, — and no magpie, nor any sound of
one. And then, before I knew it, my eye was on the bird. She (I suppose it was
she) was coming up from the bottom of the valley, a few rods off, bringing her
tail behind her; and in her yellow bill she held a stick. She was building a
nest! True enough, she flew to the top of the nearest oak, a solitary tree,
standing a hundred feet away, lit on the rim of the already large nest (as
large as a half-bushel basket, I said half an hour later, when I went under the
tree to inspect it), and carefully worked the twig into its place in the wall. For the three
quarters of an hour that I remained she and her mate were in sight the greater
part of the time. Twice, at least, another stick was added to the nest; but in
general both birds did nothing in particular, and to my disappointment had
practically nothing to say. Perhaps it was because of a stranger’s presence;
but I doubt it; they showed no concern, nor even curiosity, about him, as he
stood, glass in hand, under the cypress. More likely (at high noon, the sky
cloudless) it was their quiet hour. Greedily my eyes
fed upon them. Not that they were handsomer, or better, or intrinsically more
interesting than forty other birds; but they were what I had been seeking; they
were rare, or so I thought; they had cost me labor; the sight of them had been
more than once almost despaired of. A hummingbird was
every minute or two buzzing in the branches directly over my head, but at first
I could not look up. (She, too, was building a nest. I saw it half an hour
later.) The woman sang to her baby; I could hear all the while the rhythmical
creak of the cradle or the hammock-rope; a pair of red-tailed hawks came and
went persistently, as if the place belonged to them; a flock of grackles
chattered in the cow-yard; quail were calling from the hillside; a bluebird
perched near me, the very hue of heaven on his wings. Indeed, it was a
peaceful, heavenly hour in that little cup of a valley, full of California
sunshine — an hour I am likely to remember. I came away,
leaving the two magpies standing in the freshly green grass. A pretty picture.
The strange warbler still flitted among the willow branches, singing a bit of a
ditty as I passed. And the driver waited at the gate. “I found ‘em,” said I;
and he seemed to share my happiness. And what a pleasant
drive it was homeward, with ten thousand things to look at, and all the way the
beauty of the valley, the river, and the hills! I recall with special delight a
field brightly purple with wild portulacas. Tiny flowers they are, of the
nature of weeds, I suppose; but in the mass, and in the sun, and by the acre,
they make a natural garden such as not even the more famous California poppy
can surpass. And hour after hour, whenever there was no compelling cause to
look at anything else, I was looking at those two yellow-billed magpies. May no
plague come nigh their dwelling. |
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