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Sora — Part 2
Images coming soon.
Were it not for the incessant squeaking, "like young puppies," that is kept up in the haunts of soras, especially at dusk, morning or evening, or at the nesting season, or when startled by a sudden noise, we should never suspect there were birds living in the marshes. Pushers in the reedy lakes of Illinois and Michigan, and along the low shores of the James and other quiet rivers, sweetly whistle and call ker-wee, ker-wee, peep, peep, and kuk, 'kuk, 'kuk, 'k, 'k, 'k, 'kuk, until scores of throats reply, and slaughter soon commences. What little tender flesh there is on the rails' poor bodies, rather flavorless and sapid at the best, is filled with shot for the gourmands to grit their teeth against. As Mrs. Wright says of the bobolinks, so it may be said of the broiled or skewered soras, that they only serve "to lengthen some weary dinner where a collection of animal and vegetable bric-a-brac takes the place of satisfactory nourishment."
In the sedges that shelter and feed them, the rails also build their matted grassy nest, never far from the water, and indeed often lifted into a tussock of grasses washed by it. The eggs, more drab than buff, but spotted and marked with reddish brown like the Virginia rail's, may number as many as fifteen; and the glossy black chicks run about on strong legs, but with the creeping timidity of mice, from the hour of hatching.
The Yellow, or New York, or Yellow-breasted Rail (Porzana noveboracensis), an even more skulking, timid species than the sora, has a reputation for rarity that doubtless the blackbirds, bobolinks, and marsh wrens, which alone can penetrate into the mysteries of the sedges, would express differently were they able to retail secrets. This small rail, that measures only seven inches in length, has more wisdom than its larger kin, and refuses to be flushed except in extreme cases, for the gunners to hit during its feeble, fluttering flight. Dogs must be sent into the marshes after the panic stricken birds running through aisles of grasses until about to be overtaken, when they escape by rising from the frying pan of the dogs' jaws only to fall into the fire of shot from the rifles. Ordinarily they keep so closely concealed among the grasses, that were it not for their croaking call, suggesting the voice of the tree toad, no one would suspect their presence. All rails are more or less nocturnal in their habits, and the yellow-breasted species, more full of fears than any, rarely lifts up its voice, that Nuttall described as an "abrupt and cackling cry 'krek, 'krek, 'krek, krek, kuk, k 'uk," after daylight or before sunset. The description of the sora's habits, which are almost identical with this rail's, should be read to avoid repetition. In plumage, however, these two birds are quite different, the yellow-breasted rail having black upper parts streaked with brownish yellow and marked with white bars, the buff of the breast growing paler underneath, the dusky flanks barred with white, and the under coverts varied with black, white, and rufous. Its wing linings are white, but these the bird takes good care not to show.
The Little Black Rail, or Crake (Porzana jamaicensis), the smallest of the family, exhibits all the family shyness and fear, which, taken with its obscure coloration and its extreme unwillingness to rise on the wing, keep it almost unknown, although its range extends from Massachusetts, Illinois, and Oregon to Louisiana, the West Indies, and Central America. As its name implies, it is common in Jamaica. Mr. Marsh of that island writes its call "chi-chi-cro-croo-croo, several times repeated in sharp high notes so as to be audible to a considerable distance." Guided by this call, one may count oneself rarely fortunate to discover the little mouse-like bird that makes it, running swiftly in and out of the sedges. Its head, breast, and under parts are slate color; its fore back and nape are rich brown; its lower back, wings, and tail are brownish black spotted with white, and the flanks and dusky under parts are barred with white.
Common Gallinule
(Gallinula galeata)
There is a popular impression, for which the early ornithologists are doubtless responsible, that all gallinules are birds of the tropics; but this so-called Florida species crosses the Canadian borders in no small numbers every summer, and nests are also constantly reported in our northern and middle states. The truth probably is that the range of the Florida gallinule has not extended, but that within the last half century a hundred bird students scour our woods, meadows, and marshes for every enthusiast that tramped over them fifty years ago; and we are just becoming thoroughly acquainted with many of our birds when the gunners, milliners, cats, and other fatal accompaniments of a civilization that in many respects is still barbaric, threaten to exterminate the sadly decreased numbers left us to enjoy.