“Mockingbirds don’t do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. They don’t eat up people’s gardens, don’t nest in corn cribs. They don’t do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.”

This is perhaps the most famous quote from Harper Lee’s beloved To Kill a Mockingbird. It’s a novel I love, yet from my very first encounter with it as a child, I knew that Lee hadn’t gotten Northern Mockingbirds quite right.

She’d made them sound like some sweet, limpid caroler, a North American nightingale, perhaps. Having been dive-bombed by angry mockers when I approached too close to their (hidden) nest, and woken more than once in the middle of the night by their loud calls, I had a different opinion.

In some ways, I still do. Northern Mockingbirds have always been one of my favorite species because they’re not sweet and limpid. And, as we all know, they don’t carol.

Quite the reverse: Mockers are conspicuous (“rain-cloud gray with bursts of white,” as nature writer Gordon Grice describes them), tough and brassy. The males are fiercely territorial, often engaging in violent battles with potential rivals, and they’re equally fearless in confronting anything that might hunt them or raid their nests.

In his book The Red Hourglass: Lives of the Predators, Gordon Grice tells of a rattlesnake that made the mistake of passing beneath a mockingbird nest, provoking a series of attacks. The bird targeted the snake’s head and eyes, leaving it mortally wounded. Mockingbirds have been known, Grice says, “to keep after a rattlesnake for an hour. They don’t relent even when the snake leaves their territory; they follow and perform an execution.”

Their flashy looks and personalities make mockingbirds one of the most noticeable species in any habitat where they appear. (In this season, there appears to be a new mockingbird territory every thirty feet at Croton Landing.) They seem to demand our attention, often sitting in plain sight on a bare branch or fence top, fixing you with a dark eye as they watch you pass by.

But if they’re usually easy to observe, it’s their song that makes them famous. Of course, it’s not quite a “song,” but mockers’ talent for mimicry that gives them their common name.

Mockingbirds have the ability to imitate the calls of dozens of other bird species. (And not just birds. They’re also good at car alarms and other human-created sounds.) Stop to listen to one perform, and you’re quite likely to hear its take on robins, cardinals, wrens, orioles, and blackbirds, among others.

They do have their own songs, too, whistled phrases that are similar in tone to their mimicked calls. But the vast majority of the birds’ calls are imitations.

So we know a fair bit about mockingbirds. But it turns out there’s also a whole lot we don’t know. In fact, much about the species remains wreathed in mystery.

For example, scientific consensus has long held that mockingbirds learn new songs throughout their lives. Yet when biologist Dave Gammon, a professor at Elon University in North Carolina, tested that theory by repeatedly playing songs of new species for local mockers, he found that they didn’t learn a thing.

Gammon then studied the songs of individual mockingbirds recorded over several years, again finding that the birds’ overall repertoires never changed. So it appears they—like many species—may learn all they need to know as youngsters.

Most young birds learn to sing by listening to their parents. But no one seems to know whether mockers learn from their parents, by listening to other birds, or both. Which leads to another question: If the imitations are handed down through generations, then who was that bird who first added other species’ songs to the repertoire? And why?

Why remains the biggest mystery of all. What advantage does a mockingbird gain by learning dozens of other birds’ calls? In most bird species, males sing as a way of attracting females; strong songs, like larger size and brighter colors, show health and strength. But do female mockingbirds (who sing as well) choose the male with the loudest voice? The one with the most diverse repertoire? No one knows for sure.

I think this is fascinating: We actually understand little about a bird we think we know so well, which has appeared so often in our creative consciousness. Harper Lee is far from the only author to have been inspired by the mockingbird; much more recently, Suzanne Collins named her Hunger Games novel Mockingjay, after a jay-mockingbird hybrid.

Songwriters have turned to the mockingbird even more often. The traditional lullaby “Mockingbird” (“Hush little baby, don’t say a word, Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird) is perhaps the most famous, especially since it was transformed (by Inez and Charlie Foxx) into an R&B version covered by everyone from Dusty Springfield to Aretha Franklin and Ray Johnson to James Taylor and Carly Simon.

There’s also Patti Page singing “Mockin’ Bird Hill” (“It gives me a thrill to wake up in the morning to the mockingbird’s trill”) and, recently, singer-songwriter Lindsay Lou’s evocative “Southland” (“Come on, little mockingbird, sing us a song”), among others.

This persistence in our nation’s art has made me understand something new about the meaning of mockingbirds. Far more than just appealing splashes of color and noise around us, they conjure up still, hot summer days, childhood, the peacefulness of less complicated times. They’re also a gateway to the natural world, to a place that can restore us…but that we don’t always remember to slow down and notice.

I’m thinking that I’ve been getting it wrong, and that Harper Lee had it right all along.

Copyright © 2020 by Joseph Wallace

Today I’m going to spend some time marveling at woodpeckers. In fact, I’m going to marvel at just one part of them: their tongues.

Not that there aren’t plenty of other things worth noticing, starting with the fact that woodpeckers are one of the most diverse groups of birds in Westchester. (And one of the most noticeable and familiar: Every species can become part of our backyard-birding experience, especially during migration season.)

Six species are at least fairly common nesters in this region: the ladder-backed Downy and its bigger cousin, the Hairy; that comparatively recent invader from the south, the Red-Bellied; the quiet and little-seen Yellow-Bellied Sapsucker; the Northern Flicker; and the magnificent, crow-sized Pileated.

That’s a lot of woodpeckers. (By comparison, our region hosts just one chickadee and titmouse and two orioles and tanagers.) But woodpeckers offer more than variety and a percussion soundtrack to a walk in the spring woods. They also serve as spectacular examples of adaptive evolution. There’s so much to say that I’ll focus on three of them: the Flicker, Sapsucker, and Pileated. (I pronounce that “PILL-e-ay-ted,” by the way.)

These three species—like all woodpeckers—eat grubs, ants, and other insects, most often obtained through excavation into tree trunks or limbs. To make this possible, woodpeckers share important features: sharp chisel-like beaks, powerful neck muscles, a thick skull, and a brain designed not to be bruised by repeated impacts.

But the differences in their tongues tell us even more. In each case, the tongue’s length and structure helps reveal where each species hunts, the techniques it uses, and even its preferred prey.

Woodpeckers all tend to have surprisingly long tongues, which are usually stored, remarkably, in a chamber between the back of the bird’s skull and its skin. But Pileateds’ tongues are relatively short, and for a simple reason: The birds’ physical strength and powerful beaks allow them to excavate deeply, reaching their prey without needing an extremely long tongue to do so.

Pileateds’ preferred food includes large grubs and carpenter ants, which can reach nearly half an inch in length. To capture these sizable insects most efficiently, the tip of the Pileated’s tongue is covered with backward-facing barbs. In essence, the bird goes fishing, dipping its tongue into an excavation, hooking its prey, and yanking it out.

Northern Flickers, on the other hand, rarely excavate in wood at all. They’re much more likely to be seen on the ground, digging into ant colonies. Since the ants they eat are of the smaller varieties, Flickers’ tongues are flattened to provide a greater surface area, but have few barbs.

Like anteaters, which also feast on small ant and termites, Flickers have evolved another useful trait: sticky saliva. The flat, sticky tongue efficiently allows the woodpecker to retrieve a large number of ants at a time.

Yellow-Bellied Sapsuckers have yet another approach to food. In fact, Sapsucker adaptations may be the most fascinating and complex of all.

As their name suggests, Sapsuckers actually do eat sap taken from a variety of trees. (Their favorites range from paper birch to swamp maple to pines and other conifers.) But they do more than just eat the sap: They farm it.

Many of us recognize a row of small, circular holes neatly arrayed in lines on a tree trunk as a sapsucker’s work. One tree may have dozens or even hundreds of holes, located from near ground level high up the trunk.

These holes were not drilled in search of insect prey. They are the “sap wells” of a Yellow-Bellied Sapsucker, drilled specifically to give them access to running sap, which the bird eats. Each sapsucker maintains a territory with its own sap well farm, which it will tend each day and defend against others (including other sapsuckers) that might want to exploit it.

Sap is not the only food this woodpecker relies on. As uneaten sap dries and hardens, it can trap small insects, which become part of the bird’s diet. At certain times of year, especially fall and winter when insects are scarce, the sapsucker will augment its diet with seeds, fruit, and bast (the soft inner wood of a tree trunk or stem). But even here the sap wells play a role: The bast comes from the interiors of the holes they’ve drilled.

Adult sapsuckers feed their young sap and insects as well. Remarkably, researchers have observed parent birds catching a butterfly or other insect, then dipping it in the sap before delivering it to the babies. Presumably, this adds nutritional value to the meal.

What do sapsucker tongues have to do with all this? Plenty. Neither the Pileated’s spear- and fishhook-like tongue nor the Flicker’s flattened, sticky one is designed for transferring a flowing liquid to the bird’s mouth.

But the sapsucker’s tongue is exquisitely well suited to the task. The Yellow-Bellied’s tongue has feather-shaped bristles near the tip, converting it into a kind of sap-collecting brush. Importantly, the tongue’s bristles can hold the liquid more readily through the process known as capillary action. (The same way paint spreads between the bristles of a paintbrush.)

Beyond these three species, each of our other familiar woodpeckers also has its own unique story to tell. Meanwhile worldwide, more than 200 woodpecker species—large and small, spectacular and unobtrusive—occupy tropical jungles and boreal forests, high mountain slopes and sere deserts on every continent save Antarctica.

To see how they do it, just take a look at their tongues.

Copyright © 2020 by Joseph Wallace

Anyone who’s ever spent time walking through Northeastern wetlands in late winter is familiar with skunk cabbage (Symplocarpus foetidus), one of the earliest flowering plants to appear each year. To this lover of spring, its appearance feels like a joyous harbinger of the glories to come.

Even so, I’ve never paid much attention to the plant itself. It wasn’t until I took a walk recently among the swamps, streams, and wet forests of Pruyn Sanctuary and spotted the purple-and-white foliage emerging through patches of snow and ice that a simple question occurred to me for the first time.

How does the skunk cabbage do it?

Or, more specifically: What enables it to be first, growing so luxuriantly when most plants have barely begun to produce their first buds? The answer—as so often with the natural world when we look at it closely—is fascinating, even astonishing.

Symplocarpus foetidus, it turns out, doesn’t emerge earlier than most other wildflowers because of extra-tough leaves, some kind of antifreeze in its veins, or sheer force of will. It erupts through the snow and ice because, unlike any other plant in our region, it carries its own heating system. It actually functions like (for want of a better term) a warm-blooded plant during those cold late-winter days.

The skunk cabbage generates heat through the process known as thermogenesis, which in fact closely resembles the process used by mammals and other warm-blooded creatures. The process begins with starches the plant has stored in its roots and rhizome (the part of the stem that lies underground), all in preparation for the slightly less cold days of late winter.

Often weeks before most other plants are active, the starches begin to break down, a process that produces a significant amount of energy—i.e., heat. It then exudes the heat through its pores (called stomata) in a process called cellular respiration.

Scientists have found that, over the short term (usually a week or two), a skunk-cabbage plant can warm itself and the earth around it dozens of degrees above the temperature of the surrounding air. In addition, this little engine warms the nearby soil, making it more hospitable to the plant’s growth.

In researching this piece, I discovered that the skunk cabbage wasn’t through surprising me. I’d always assumed that the glossy, mottled purple-and-white shoots that emerge first are leaves. They’re actually leaf-like structures called spathes, which enclose spike-like stems called spadices. (Singular: spadix.) The plant’s abundant clusters of yellowish flowers grow on its spadix, and the leaves—a less glossy green—appear later.

As so often, the answers to some questions about the world around us only lead to more. For example: Given that the skunk cabbage’s flowers are pollinated by insects, are there enough bugs around in late winter to do the job?

There are, in fact, insects that hatch out at the same time that the cabbage blooms, including its pollinators, flies, stoneflies, and bees. By sending out its flower spike so early, the skunk cabbage is functioning as a classic “early bird.”

The plant’s skunkish odor—most noticeable up close—may also help the plant attract its pollinators, many of which typically feast on carrion and rotting vegetation along with nectar. Even in a season where there may be few insects about, the cabbage makes its presence known to the ones that have hatched.

Even the skunk cabbage’s temporary “warm-bloodedness” plays a part in its ability to thrive under challenging conditions. As well as giving the plant a jumpstart on spring, its self-generated heat may help its insect-attracting odor spread more widely through the air. And once the pollinators approach, the greater warmth within the spathe tempts them inside, where the flowers—and pollen—are.

My walk in Pruyn Sanctuary inspired me to learn about this unique native plant. Even so, for me the best thing about seeing its early leaves—I mean spathes—emerging from the winter earth hasn’t changed at all. To me, the early emergence of skunk cabbage will always mean one thing: Spring is coming. Copyright © 2020 by Joseph Wallace

I admit it: I take Black-capped Chickadees for granted. I mean, I like them: They’re cute, a dependable and confiding visitor to feeders, and one of the few birds that may actually fly over when I show off my “pishing” birdcall to skeptical friends. Even so, to me at least they’ve always been more Old Reliable than Must See.

But it turns out that, as with most things, we miss a lot when we underestimate chickadees. These familiar little birds have much to teach us about taxonomy, speciation, even the evolutionary roots of birds’ learning ability.

Currently, seven chickadee species are recognized in North America, ranging from the Mexican, which enters the U.S. almost entirely in the Sky Island mountains of Southeastern Arizona, to the Grey-headed, found only in Northwestern Canada and Alaska. Almost every spot in between has a chickadee species as well…though rarely more than one.

In divvying up the continent in this way, chickadees provide a vivid example of what Charles Darwin first demonstrated with the famous Galapagos finches and mockingbirds: How even subtle differences in geography, altitude, and food sources—like those found between New York with its Black-cappeds and Washington, D.C., where Carolinas are the rule—can cause a common ancestor to split into several different species.

Yet how split these species are remains an intriguingly open question. As a glance at a bird guide shows, the different chickadees all remain so closely related that they resemble those old “find seven differences between the two drawings” puzzles. (The Carolina Chickadee is only slightly smaller than the Black-capped; the Boreal has a brown instead of black cap; the Mountain Chickadee’s “chick-a-dee” call is a little harsher and faster than the Black-capped’s, and so on.)

Clearly these little apples haven’t yet fallen far from the family tree. But the real question is: Have they fallen at all? Because, confoundingly, in the small areas where Carolina and the Black-capped Chickadees overlap (a narrow zone running from Kansas east to New Jersey), it turns out that they interbreed freely…and produce plenty of fertile offspring.

Given that our longtime definition of “species” centers on the ability to produce fertile young, does this make Carolina and Black-capped the same species? And if so, how about their cousins, who appear no more distantly related? Could we actually be looking at a single superspecies?  

These are all good questions, though not ones that birders who keep life lists might want to hear. They’re also the same questions that are now being asked about many other bird and animal species long considered separate. (Perhaps most remarkably, polar and grizzly bears turn out to be able to produce fertile offspring, a finding that feels like a harbinger for the future as climate change brings species previously isolated by distance into close proximity.)

But chickadees do more than intrigue genealogists. They’ve also caught the attention of those who study communication—even among different species.

For many small songbirds, “mobbing”—and thus calling attention to—raptors and other potential threats serves as a survival technique. Around here, Black-capped Chickadees often lead the mob, their emphatic “chicka-dee-dee-dee!” calls serving as the first sign that a hawk or owl is in the vicinity.

Their mode of communication is more complex than that, though: The birds actually signal the seriousness of the threat. The greater the danger, the more “dees” the bird appends to the original “chicka.”

When the threat is dire indeed—as with songbird-hunting owls—the chickadee may sound off with more than a twenty loud “dees.” The intensity of the calls can serve as either a warning to hide or a summons to join the mob, dictates that both fellow chickadees and other species (such as nuthatches and Downy Woodpeckers) understand and take heed of.

Chickadees have even more to teach us. How they’ve evolved to ride out northern winters is, in fact, the tale of one of the most remarkable evolutionary adaptations in the animal world.

In spring and summer, chickadees are like many other birds, eating a mix of vegetable matter (mainly seeds) and insects. Unlike most songbirds, though, they don’t migrate to warmer climes in winter. Instead, they remain reliant almost entirely on seeds left over from the growing season, a food source that may be abundant one day, inaccessible or gone the next.

To survive these realities, chickadees have evolved the ability to cache seeds, hiding them in many different locations. Sometimes a single bird will cache seeds in more than a thousand different spots.

Caches provide certain food stores, no matter the weather, and using many sites guarantees that another opportunistic seed-eater won’t discover and plunder a chickadee’s entire supply. But this remarkable survival technique provokes a question: How do chickadees find all their hiding places? How do they remember?

The answer is that they rely on their hippocampus, an area of the brain responsible for spatial organization. Simply put, it’s the part that enables them to recognize and identify where they left something.

In many species, including humans, the hippocampus serves this same function. But most of us don’t have to remember a thousand different knotholes or patches of loose bark, much less as a requirement of survival. (Simply recalling where we left the car keys is challenging enough.)

So how do the birds accomplish this herculean task? Through a remarkable evolutionary adaptation: Each year in the fall, as the chickadee gathers its trove, its hippocampus grows as much as 30 percent. It is, in effect, making room for the new memories it will need to endure the winter.

Then in the spring, as abundant new food sources appear and an unerring spatial memory is no longer such a high priority, the chickadee’s hippocampus will shrink down to its previous size. Until the next fall, when the process will repeat.

As I’ve been writing this, a chickadee has been making regular visits to the feeder out my back window. Now, as I watch it fly off in different directions with one safflower seed at a time, I know why. I’m also reminded of something deeper, more essential, about the world around us: Even in small, familiar, and—yes—adorable packages, it remains full of surprise, wonder, and unexpected new knowledge. © 2020 by Joseph Wallace