The Egg Collection

I open the two flat yellowing boxes and there they are! Each one resting on a pad of cotton batting in its own little hand-made cardboard cell. There’s one egg from each of many birds around the farm. Their sight brings back fond memories of the tranquil spring days when brother Dick and I, still not yet teens, assembled them. I can easily recall my excitement when the summer birds return.

Fields and forests round the farm are coming back to life. The stronger sun and longer days bring harbingers of Spring on warmer southern winds. They’re back! Stark black against the dazzling sun-soaked snow, one settles on a weathered lane-way post. The first Crow!

Joyful promise floods my winter-weary mind. This oh-so-welcome sign of Spring brings thoughts of other feathered friends arriving soon. In my mind I see it all unfold; Robins will be next, followed by a multitude of summer visitors returning to their summer haunts. I feel impatient for the symphony of song and colour soon to saturate my eyes and ears!

The birds of winter have their place. They are much-loved friends that share the harsh Alberta cold; welcome sights in a white and green-less land. Among them, bustling Chickadees, cackling Magpies, sleek crested Cedar Waxwings, and ever-present House Sparrows. They brighten cold short days and remind me of the avian life to come. But now it’s May and our summer birds are back. Even though they spend more time in warmer southern climes than here, they are our birds. This is where they mate, sing their little hearts out, and raise their families. Their trip south is only to survive until returning to their rightful homes right here on my beloved farm.

Their presence brings the yard and garden fully back to life. There is action on the house eave bracket above the sandbox where, when younger, we spent many hours of play. Robins are shooing interloping sparrows from their last-years’ nest, and after completing mud-based renos, they move back in. The Wrens return to the little green birdhouse on the garden gatepost. Their warbling trills, drifting through the open kitchen window bring sighs of deep appreciation from my Mom. I now begin to feel that they are more than ‘just another little bird’ because of the joy they bring.

Blackbird attacking a Crow

Blackbirds arrive to populate the maze of caragana hedges all around the house and garden. I once counted eight pairs of glistening jet-black yellow-eyed males, and drab and dusky females. Blackbirds are aggressive defenders of their nesting sites. If I get too near, they dive close to my head with a chip, chip, chip to drive me off. When a hawk or crow flies by, even when quite high, a duty-bound male flies up to intercept. It makes passes at the big bird’s head until it moves away, just like a war-time fighter plane rising to attack an enemy bomber.

Oriole Nest

The splashy orange and black Orioles have settled in the poplar grove between the east garden and the road. Their nest is close to our tree hut where I sit, basking in the poplar-perfumed air enriched by their melodic song.  High in the waving boughs, I spot their grass and horsehair nest. It looks just like the nuts on George Daly’s bull, pendulous in the breeze. I wonder, “How can I get one of their eggs for our collection?”.

I don’t know why Dick and I start an egg collection.  It may have been because of curiosity. “I wonder what a Flicker’s egg looks like?” Or it may have been the challenge. The nest might be in a hollow tree with an entrance too small for my hand. It might be in tall grass and almost impossible to find. Still others are high in trees that may have no branches below fifteen feet or so.

Collecting an egg from nests on the ground or in low bushes is a simple task. Nests in tall trees present the challenge of getting an egg safely to the ground. We have two methods: if there are no intervening branches, I toss the egg out from the tree and Dick catches it below in the soft lining of his peaked cap. If there are branches in the way, I place the egg under my hat and carefully climb down. There is another way, used but only once: one day I climb a Crow’s nest and have the egg ready to throw down to Dick. But there are branches in the way and I have no hat on. What to do? Well, I pop it in my mouth, nearly falling in my frantic scramble down, successfully hitting the ground before I have to swallow. After that, I spit for quite a while, but we have our Crow’s egg.

Dick and I (with Owen)
set for egg hunting, 1944

Our goal is to get an egg from as many of our bird species as possible. And from what we see, it doesn’t seem to hurt their ability to raise a family. If we return to the scene of our theft, sometimes we find that another egg has been laid to replace the pilfered one.

As our collection grows, my fascination with the rich diversity of bird habits and plumage extends to their eggs as well. For example, the egg of an Oriole is quite long and narrow and is blue gray with random splotches of tarry black. The Flicker’s egg is almost round and pearly white. Why has Mother Nature created them that way? Maybe it’s because the Orioles nest can sway wildly in the wind and longer eggs won’t roll around so much. And the Flicker’s nest is deep in the core of a solid tree-trunk where there is no movement and no need for camouflage.

On viewing our collection, some eggs recall a story:

The Defender: Collecting eggs is not without its risks. It’s a warm day in May before the leaves are out, and pal Harvey, Dick and I are tramping through Alcock’s bush, just across the fence from our “Spruces” bush. I spot a crow’s nest about ten feet off the ground in a willow clump. “There’s a bird on it”, Dick whispers in excitement.  Harv pipes up,” I see it and it’s kind of brown; it’s not a crow!”. There is a pair of tufts on its google-eyed head so we know it’s an owl. I am standing right below the nest, readying to scramble up to purloin an egg for our collection. I shake the slender trunk to scare her off and look up to see her stir. Her tail is visible over the edge of the nest as she rises and sets herself to fly the other way. Then it happens! A forceful grey cloacal discharge splatters on my upturned face before she flees the nest. Harv and Dick are unsympathetically overtaken with glee at my spitting, sputtering, and swearing. Eventually I share the mirth. We get the egg. I blow it (put a hole in both ends to blow into one so the contents come out the other) and put it in our collection with the caption Screech Owl. On further checking we see that species is not resident in Alberta and determine it to be a Long-eared Owl.  

The Faker: My shortcut to Harvey’s place across the road is through the sparsely treed and closely grazed ram pasture behind the chicken house. This Spring a pair of Killdeers is always there.

A Killdeer's "nest"

I love these birds; their flitting graceful flight and plaintive “killdeer” cry. They must have a nest on the ground somewhere near. I search and search but see no sign of it. When they start their diversionary acts, I’ll know I must be close. At first, one of them, say the female, does the snuggle down where she settles on the ground in a snuggling manner as if sitting on a nest of eggs. “Maybe that really is her nest”, I think at first, but of course, it never is. She is leading me away.

The other ruse is the broken wing. When she leaves her fake nest, she doesn’t just fly away. Instead she flutters, seemingly crippled, along the ground, one wing dragging. She looks an easy mark for any predator around. I get close and off she flies, and I’m quite sure, away from the nest.

I don’t give up, and finally I see it - right below my feet. I must have passed it several times. There is no real nest at all, only four eggs in a slight dip in the ground. They blend with the turf in perfect camouflage. I wonder about their shape, quite pointed at one end. I now see why. Since there is no nest to cradle them, if any other shape, they’d roll away. Having all points all facing in, they are a stable clutch.

The Freeloader: Small groups of small brown “blackbirds” follow our Holstein cows around the front pasture feeding on the insects they attract or stir up. I wonder where they nest so I can add an egg to our collection. Our much-consulted bird book answers this. We learn that these lazy Cowbirds don’t build nests. Instead the females range far and wide depositing their eggs in nests of any other species they can find, leaving them to raise their young. To me this just seems wrong. These Cowbirds are shirking their parental responsibilities and it isn’t fair! For example, when they deposit an egg in the nest of a much smaller Yellow Warbler, the larger taller gaping beak of the earlier-hatching Cowbird chick will hog much food intended for the Warbler chicks, reducing their chances of survival. 

A Cowbird's egg in a Yellow Warbler's nest

The bird book says that Cowbirds lay a lot of eggs because some birds they target will destroy the alien egg. I wonder if this is one reason why each species’ eggs have unique colours and patterns – so that Cowbird’s deposits can more easily be identified and removed. However, over time,we read, Cowbirds can adapt the colouring of their eggs to match their primary host. But a human code of conduct cannot be applied to birds, or any other creatures in the wild. Nature finds a way for all life forms to adapt, and this is simply one of them.

The Butcher: There’s a dead mouse impaled on a small branch. It is close to a twig-grass-wool nest in one of the Manitoba Maple trees across the potato patch next to the road. The robin-sized grey black-winged bird perched nearby has a black “bandit” mask across its eyes and a large black beak with tiny hook at the end. The bird book tells me it is a Loggerhead Shrike, also known as a Butcher Bird. At first, I think its a scavenger. On reading more about it, I learn that as well as feeding on insects, it is also a ferocious predator of small animals and birds. With no apparent talons, how can this be so?

I read on. Their sharp hooked beak is used to pierce the neck of prey, severing the spinal cord. This paralyzing act is followed by a twist of the head to break the neck. The prey is then are hung upon a twig and accessed for meaty morsels as required. These birds strike me as the kung fu masters of the avian world!

Ollie when he arrived

The Pet: It would be so much fun to have a pet bird! Not just a canary or a budgie in a cage, but one outdoors where it can fly around. But what bird? Most young that I have seen are already wild when nearly fully grown. If taken when too young then I wouldn’t know what, or how, to feed it.Reed’s Bush is a twenty-five-acre wooded paradise right next to our North Field. It’s home to many little birds I know by sight and sound though not by name. The big birds I do know; the Ruffed Grouse on it’s nest under the Wild Black Current bush; the Red-tailed Hawk nest high in a towering spruce; and the Great Horned Owl nesting atop an abandoned Magpie nest in a willow clump at the edge of a small clearing.

In mid-May, most birds are building nests and laying eggs. The Owls are not though. They’re many weeks ahead and past that stage. Two half-grown fluffy chicks are already sitting upright in the nest, slowly blinking at me as I peer over the brim of their coarse twig home. I say to Dick, “Let’s take one for a pet”. “Too young” he says, and I agree, “We’ll come back in a week or two.”

When we return, they’ve left the nest. One Owlet is within reach, perched on a dipping willow branch. Amid the screeching dives of upset parents, I grab it as it flaps its yet unready wings. Dick takes off his jacket and we carefully wrap it up and hurry home. My excitement swells: we are going to have our very own pet owl!

At this stage of my life my reverence for life was largely undeveloped, evidenced by both the taking of the owlet and the way we feed it. Owls are carnivores. And what does a carnivore eat but meat. The question now is, “Where do we get the meat?” Dick and I have no money to buy any and there are no butcher shops around from which to get waste scraps. So, we think, “What would the parents feed it?”. The answer, of course, is other birds and animals.

What Ollie looked like when he left

The most easily obtainable are gophers and mice that we trap, and chicks from bird’s nests. We decide to take the latter from the most prolific and least desired species, the House Sparrow, scouring the farm and countryside for every nest to raid. Our pet, now named “Ollie” is well fed.

By August, Ollie is fully grown and fledged. He perches atop the barn or house where he endures aerial harassment by defensive Robins and Blackbirds. (We assume it is a “he” but really don’t have a clue). He is fun to feed. I stand in the middle of the barnyard holding a dead mouse by the tail, and loudly call “Here Ollie, Here Ollie!”. He launches from the barn roof, dropping near the ground to pick up speed toward me. For a moment I think I’ll hold the mouse and let him snatch it from my hand. Then better sense prevails and just as he gets close, I toss it in the air. His deadly talons seize the mouse and take it to the ground nearby. He reaches down, and with his beak, he lifts it by its head. Three or four slow neck-stretching swallows and it’s gone!

Now it’s September. Ollie must be hunting on his own because he’s seldom in our yard. And finally, he comes around no more. I’m sure he’s now in a place like Reed’s Bush living with his fellow Owls. I am grateful for his time with us and glad that he is free.

The Rescue: It is early July in the year following Ollie’s departure. I have just finished coiling alfalfa hay (forking it into small piles to cure) in the nine-acre field at the west end of the farm. On the neighbour’s side of our chokecherry-lined border fence there is a Red-Tailed Hawk’s nest in the tallest creek-side Black Poplar tree. Activity around the nest is a sure sign of nestlings. Of course, I must go and take a look.

I size up the climb. Here I need to say that I think I am the best tree-climber in the neighborhood. To me there is no tree I cannot scale. From shinnying with legs locked around the trunk, to assessing the strength of small dead branches, and being prepared in case they snap, I have learned it all. I know that Mom likes me to have fun but is reserved in her support because of the wear and tear it causes to my clothes and the risks to me that she imagines.

But back to the climb at hand. There are no branches for the first ten feet or so, but the large rough-barked trunk is a much easier shinny than a thinner smooth-barked tree. After monkeying up this limbless section, I wind up through the solid branches to the two-foot wide twig nest set against the now slender height-diminished trunk. The flat nest is strewn with partially eaten gopher carcasses, some crawling with maggots and emitting a powerful stench. There is one nearly fully-fledged young Hawk. On taking a close look, I see movement in its ear holes. They both are full of squirming maggots! I am torn; if I leave it maybe the maggots will reach its brain. Or maybe they are not a problem and will eventually disappear. Perhaps the parents will take care of it.

I decide not to risk leaving it, so I tuck the young Hawk inside my jacket, scramble down the tree, and take it home. Not knowing what else to do, I pour kerosene into both ears. This does the job because the next day the ears are clear. It is such a beautiful bird and even larger than Ollie. I think it must be female, because the bird book says that, like all raptors, Red-Tail and Great Horned Owl mature females are about a pound heavier than males. What to do with her? At first, I think, “I’ll just feed her for a few days and then take her back to the nest”. But I didn’t. We feed her like Ollie, and she comes for food when called, just like Ollie. However, within in two weeks she is flying and beginning to soar. After a few more days she returns to the wild leaving her temporary residence in the farmyard.

There are many other birds that grace our place. Among them are the formal-looking Tree Swallows in the hollow old poplar beside the garage; boat-tailed Purple Grackles with the woolly nest in the bush behind the barn (several of our birds use scraps of wool that our sheep leave on rails or fences); cheerful Meadowlarks on post at the end of the driveway; Bluebirds nesting in the mailbox because they couldn’t find a hollow tree; Yellow Warblers in the lilac bush outside the sun porch window; Mallards nesting in the north hay field where we leave a swath uncut. Black Terns diving at Harv and I as we pole our barn-door raft too close to their half-floating nest on the slough across the road.

These are some of the memories that the egg collection stirs deep within my heart. Like much of the countryside of my boyhood, the habitat that was the farm is now completely replaced by highways and commercial development. I wonder where these species now reside. I’m sure that many have dispersed to more friendly distant grounds. But I am afraid that even those that have, are back in fewer number.