My First Woodcock Nest

Like most country boys of early America I learned to hunt and in the course of time, among other species that were sacrificed that I might examine closely their plumage and structure, a woodcock fell to my none too certain aim. I shall never forget with what delight I examined the long slender bill, with its sensitive and flexible tip, with which the marshy ground is probed for worms; the large expressive eye, set far back and high up in that queerly-barred head, and that during the evolution of the woodcock from some earlier form seems to have moved back from the bill past the ear, which now lies below it. That eye surely serves well this bogtrotter in the semi-darkness of its daytime haunts, and in its nocturnal food seeking. The beautifully mottled back, with its mixture of rich brown and black, and those gray stripes that look so much like withered stalks of last-year's herbage when the bird is crouched, are striking features, as well as the peculiar color pattern of the tips of the tail feathers, gray on the upper surface and silvery-white below, that show to such advantage in the upspread tail.

During the next few years, I must confess, I tramped many a mile in the golden day of October, seeking the spots where the migrants from farther north concealed themselves during the daylight hours. Looking back over those woodcock quests of early days two convictions are prominent in my mind. That the country boy, ranging with single gun, and assisted by no dog, has been no serious factor in th lessening ranks of the woodcock; and that I am now glad that my success was no greater.

And what a rich mine of Nature lore was opened for my benefit in the course of those woodland wanderings. Can one ever forget the finding of his first woodcock nest? Mine was in a patch of young second-growth oaks and maples where the stone-studded ground gave chance for little undergrowth. The bird rose almost in my face, and revealed the four beautiful eggs at my feet. A few yards away she alighted, and nervously, and seemingly in pain, threaded her way among the rough frostriven boulders, seeking to draw me from the spot. When next the place was visited I failed at first to flush her and thought that she was away from the nest, but finally I detected her within a foot of my shoe.

An attempt to stroke her back just failed, for she slipped away frorm under my hand. Almost daily I went there, hoping to see the newly hatched young, until one day only the discarded shells were found. Those particular young birds I was never able to find, but as the recurring springs sped by many mother birds that were guardining their buffy short-billed youngsters came under my observation, and many interesting habits were revealec.

By: davidbunch

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