It was eight thirty and nearly dark by the time I finished arranging everything according to Harry’s instructions. The pedestal bird bath was placed in the middle of the lower terrace at a safe distance from shrubbery that would lend cover to lurking cats. With the aid of a notched stick and some wire, I suspended a length of hose over the bath and left the water turned on just enough to provide a slight drip.
It didn’t look very attractive, but I have long since discovered that birds and people frequently have opposite views about what is attractive. The tidy gardener will abhor the patch of weeds that is irresistible to the goldfinch. He will hasten to haul away the pile of brush where the wren finds its spider, the thrush its worm, the towhee its shelter. He will arrange to burn the stump where the bluebird nests and the woodpecker hunts for caterpillar larvae. He will use quantities of insecticide to get rid of mosquitoes while he simultaneously drives away their arch enemy, the cliff swallow, by knocking down its mud nest under the eaves in order to preserve the neatness of his house. He will not stand the sight of a tree skeleton, yet it is at just such a skeleton, the bare bones of an old blue gum eucalyptus standing at the west end of our property, where Ken and I have seen more species of birds than any other one place. Almost all the birds use it: for a lookout, as a place torest, to meet, to court, to preen, to study the surrounding country, to watch for hawks, to converse, to sleep in the sun. The gardener who prides himself on his neatness pays heavily, and usually unwittingly, for his pride. Birds will be uncomfortable in his yard just as a human being is uncomfortable in the house of a perfectionist.
The hummingbird feeder I hung on the porch, with a couple of fuchsia blossoms taped near the tube to attract their interest. This feeder was discovered and taken over by a hummingbird the following morning. Such quick success is the exception rather than the rule and I attribute it not to the fuchsia blossom but to the fact that a neighbor up the street, Adelaide Garvin, had been feeding hummers for years. She kept eight containers of honey and water on her patio all year, so it seems likely that every hummer for miles around was well accustomed to them.
Mrs. Garvin had started out, one winter several years before, with a single feeder which was in due course discovered by a male Anna’s hummingbird, the only species which is a permanent resident in our area. For a brief time things went smoothly, with Mrs. Garvin enjoying her guest and the hummer enjoying her hospitality. Then a second male Anna appeared on the scene. There was plenty of room in the garden for both of them, plenty of flowers to provide them with insects, and they could have lived harmoniously side by side, taking turns at the feeder. But if there’s one thing a hummingbird can’t stand it’s the sight of another hummingbird eating. To him a feeder is merely another flower and he knows by instinct that a flower fades and there is an end of honey. To share it would be like a farmer sharing a well he knows is going dry — bad business as well as against nature.
Mr. Anna One welcomed the stranger with a vigorous and noisy frontal attack. The stranger, Mr. Anna Two, reciprocated in kind. And so it went, day after day. From the first feeble light of morning these tiny iridescent patches of rose-red plunged and dove and zoomed and dipped and hovered, and the air was filled with their excited sounds of combat, tick tick tick — tick tick — tick tick tick tick tick... It was like listening to a battle between a pair of deranged flying clocks.
While no blood was shed, no clear-cut victory was won either, and the battle simply went on. Neither of the gladiators was ever allowed more than a few seconds at the feeder and Mrs. Garvin began to be afraid that they were going to starve to death and she would be responsible. She was at the point of taking down the feeder and forgetting the whole thing when she read in a magazine about a situation similar to hers. The solution, it seemed, was to place a second feeder, at some distance from and out of sight of the other, on the assumption that if each bird had its own feeder, peace would prevail. Mrs. Garvin, delighted at the prospect of such an easy solution, hastened to buy another feeder and put it up at the opposite end of the patio, hidden from the first by a giant yucca.
Mr. Anna One spotted the new feeder immediately. Before Mrs. Garvin even had a chance to fill it he was over, investigating, touching it with his beak and tasting it with his tongue, which was as long and quick and delicate as a snake’s. This maneuver left the first feeder unoccupied and Mr. A II lost no time using his opportunity. It was probably his first — and positively his last — uninterrupted session at any feeder. Dining alone had certain obvious advantages, but A II evidently felt that they were outweighed by the excitements of combat because within a couple of minutes he went off in search of A I. They met at the new feeder just as Mrs. Garvin was in the act of filling it.
The ensuing fight lasted for the balance of the afternoon. A I would take a sip of honey water, then fly back to his perch on a twig about six feet away, moving his head constantly from side to side so as not to miss the approach of any trespassers on his new property. At this point A II would zoom out of ambush and take a hasty swig before being driven off. Then he would swoop back across the patio to the original feeder. Suspecting just such skulduggery, A I would immediately follow him, ticking so fast and furiously he seemed ready to explode like a time bomb. Back and forth between the feeders the two birds went, until dusk forced them to seek cover for the night.
In her quest for peace Mrs. Garvin had merely intensified the war and enlarged the battlefield. She was, naturally, disappointed but she was also beginning to get curious: what would happen if she put up a third feeder? Was it possible that the birds actually enjoyed fighting and were merely using the feeders as an excuse?
In order to prevent A I and A II from spying on her activities, she waited until the following night to place a third feeder in the arbutus tree at the other side of the house where it was almost completely concealed by the dense leaves. She had even left the formula uncolored and merely painted the end of the feeding tube with red nail polish. Though I have found that this works perfectly well, I still go on using the colored stuff. It looks prettier.
Both male Annas were much too occupied to go exploring. A neglected girlfriend, however, often has plenty of time to kill, and one of these was browsing in the arbutus, sticking her beak into the tiny, white bell-shaped flowers, when she discovered the feeding tube. If she had had any sense she would have kept her find to herself and enjoyed a little security. But she couldn’t resist the urge to brag to the male and lord it over him. She had no reason to spare his feelings; the previous spring, after a spectacular kiss-and-run affair, he had left her to face the consequences, a pair of twins, and raise them all by herself.
It was the beginning of February when Miss Anna discovered her feeder. At the same time, unfortunately, a male Allen’s hummingbird arrived in the arbutus tree after a winter vacation in Mexico. He was tired and hungry after his long journey and even under the best of circumstances he is not noted for his placid disposition. Buzzing his wings, fanning his brown-red tail and squeaking vigorously at Miss Anna, he ordered her to get lost. Miss Anna retaliated with a thrust of her bill and a series of enraged tick tick ticks, which attracted the attention not only of A I and A II but of Mrs. Garvin as well.