Pam’s Perspective<\/p>\n
From the\u2026<\/p>\n
Pam Otto is the Manager of Natural Programs and<\/p>\n
Interpretive Services for the St. Charles Park District<\/p>\n
May 11, 2012<\/p>\n
“Mew.”<\/p>\n
The sound was soft and, at first, easy to overlook. But the longer I spent in the woods, listening<\/p>\n
as I walked, the more insistent the caller became.<\/p>\n
“Mew\u2026Meew\u2026Meeeww!”<\/p>\n
I was supposed to be gathering supplies at the end of “Lay of the Land,” our sixth grade geology<\/p>\n
and orienteering program, but the weather was so perfect, I was having trouble staying on task.<\/p>\n
As the sun dappled the leaves and ground around me, distractions just kept coming along\u2014a<\/p>\n
mourning cloak butterfly smack in the middle of the path (tried to take a picture, but no luck);<\/p>\n
great gobs of spittlebug spittle, glistening in the sun (had to poke into one, to see if I could find<\/p>\n
the little larva hidden inside); an American toad crawling through the sedges (can’t not stop to<\/p>\n
appreciate a toad, warts and all).<\/p>\n
And then there was that incessant mewing.<\/p>\n
Clearly I’d upset someone’s day in the<\/p>\n
woods. And thanks to that cat-like call, it<\/p>\n
wasn’t hard to know who it was:<\/p>\n
Dumetella carolinensis, the gray catbird.<\/p>\n
Boy, talk about a perfect name. This<\/p>\n
medium-sized member of the Mimidae, or<\/p>\n
mimic family (the same as mockingbirds<\/p>\n
and thrashers), is predominantly slate<\/p>\n
gray, with a black cap and a dark gray tail.<\/p>\n
It’s not entirely monochromatic, though.<\/p>\n
Adobe Systems<\/p>\n
Down below, the patch of feathers known as the undertail coverts are a rusty red color. You can<\/p>\n
see these pictured in field guides and, if you’re lucky, in the field. Catbirds, however, are more<\/p>\n
likely heard than seen.<\/p>\n
Any hard-core Latin buffs out there may recognize the root word dumus, or thorny thicket,<\/p>\n
hidden in the genus name. Add on a diminutive suffix and you end up with a name that means,<\/p>\n
roughly, “small thornbush dweller,” another apt descriptor. Catbirds typically are found in the<\/p>\n
woodland understory, calling from the branches of shrubs and small trees, whether thorny or not.<\/p>\n
But what both the common and Latin names leave out is any mention of the catbird’s<\/p>\n
phenomenal singing ability.<\/p>\n
Are you familiar with scat? (And, no, even though this is a nature column, we’re not talking<\/p>\n
about THAT kind of scat. Not this time anyway.) What I’m referring to is the style of singing<\/p>\n
where the singer just keeps going on and on, incorporating familiar words or phrases along with<\/p>\n
a long string of nonsensical sounds. Ella Fitzgerald was a great scat artist, and so was Cab<\/p>\n
Calloway.<\/p>\n
And so is the catbird.<\/p>\n
Their “mew” sounds, or warning calls, aside, catbirds are accomplished vocalists capable of<\/p>\n
producing some of the longest songs in our woods. Their compositions are a combination of<\/p>\n
original notes and, true to their mimic roots, bits and pieces borrowed from other birds. One song<\/p>\n
can include tweets and peeps, toots and howls, along with parts of songs from robins, orioles or<\/p>\n
other songbirds, even the calls of frogs or the drone of machinery.<\/p>\n
What really distinguishes the catbird’s song is its length. Like some naturalists I know, the<\/p>\n
catbird can go on and on. And on. Songs can last up to 10 minutes\u2014a huge chunk of time when<\/p>\n
you consider that life in the woods must also include other necessary tasks like foraging for food<\/p>\n
and hiding from predators.<\/p>\n
If you should find yourself near a woodland or “thorny thicket” and happen to hear a bird<\/p>\n
singing, stop and give a listen. Not sure who is? Be a bad audience member and clear your<\/p>\n
throat. Rustle around a little, or clap prematurely. If your actions cause the singing to stop, and if<\/p>\n
you’re scolded with a petulant, whining “Mew!” you’ll know you’ve found yourself a catbird, an<\/p>\n
avian songster whose bold performances are, say it with me, the cat’s meow.<\/p>\n
Pam Otto, who can’t sing to save her life but has no trouble making nonsensical sounds, is the<\/p>\n
manager of nature programs and interpretive services for the St. Charles Park District. She can<\/p>\n