The female shows a strong attachment for her nest and exhibits great anxiety on the approach of any being, “beating her wings along the branches in the utmost distress, or one may still hear her sharp chipping note of alarm as she disappears in the almost impenetrable growth of small black spruce.”
The nest is interesting. It is usually placed on a large branch at its junction with the trunk of the tree. A cone-bearing tree is selected and the spruce is preferred, as in it the nest is more perfectly obscured. The Black-poll’s house is not the delicate structure that one would expect to find as the home of so dainty a bird. This bulky structure is usually placed not higher than six or eight feet from the ground. It is constructed from the fine twigs and sprays of the evergreen trees and fine roots woven with weeds, moss, lichens and vegetable and animal hairs. The lining consists of fine grass and feathers. Though the external diameter of the nest is fully five inches, the internal diameter seldom measures over two inches.
Mr. Langille has beautifully described the song of the Black-poll. He says, “That song, though one of the most slender and wiry in all our forests, is as distinguishable as the hum of the cicada or the shrilling of the katydid. Tree-tree-tree-tree-tree-tree-tree-tree, rapidly uttered, the monotonous notes of equal length, beginning very softly, gradually increasing to the middle of the strain and then as gradually diminishing, thus forming a fine musical swell—may convey a fair idea of the song. There is a peculiar soft and tinkling sweetness in this melody, suggestive of the quiet mysteries of the forest and sedative as an anodyne to the nerves.”
Sweet voices midst the blossoms; Amidst the meadow-blooms; Midst mallow-buds and sedges; Midst flower-hearts by their looms; Through vistas of the forests, Round minaret and dome, The mists of mountain torrents; Through rainbows of the foam; Above the rush of waters; Above the swirl of seas; Through labyrinths of maremma— Ah yes, and more than these— Yet flashes out a remnant Of bird-wings on the air, Or floats the song-birds’ rhythms Midst slaughter and despair. Is there no human pity? In all the world so wide Can nothing stay the slaughter, Can nothing stem the tide Before, from Nature’s pageant, All bird-life joy is crushed; Before the wings lie broken Before the songs are hushed? —George Klingle.